HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX<

Directed by David Yates

There's a scene in HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX, where Harry is looking into a mirror and he sees a portrait of himself as a young boy with his murdered parents. It was probably the most shocking image in the film, not for its narrative or visuals, but for the fact that Daniel Radcliffe, the actor who plays Harry, was just a wee kid when the first HP film came out, and he's now a young man. It was both alarming and revealing to see that so much time has passed since the Harry Potter books and films have come out, and it was a reminder that we as an audience have grown up with this boy, this school, this wonderful world that J.K. Rowling has so lovingly concocted.

Given this, in the latest installment of the Harry Potter films, there's a decided lack of wonderment with Hogwarts. Many critics have pointed this out as a flaw, that they no longer had the sense of enchantment, that the world of Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic seemed flat and rather ordinary. But the fact of the matter is that we have been with these books since 1997 and the films since 2000, and so therefore we are familiar with Hogwarts, we comprehend the magic, we know these characters well. There is little sense of discovery about this world, because there is little left to discover. Both the film and the book acknowledge this, and they both make the correct move in delving entirely into character and plot development. The magic is over, and now life in this world can truly begin.

As is tradition, we begin the film with Harry in the world of non-magical humans, the Muggles. He is surly and moody- a typical teenager no less- and he is jolted from his dreary summer when he is attacked by Dementors, the wraith-like specters that guard the prisons at Azkaban. The very tone of this impressive and taut opening sequence tells us that the dream life has ended- rules of children and legislation are no longer applying here, and we're going into dark, murky territory.

Harry is whisked off to a magic safe house owned by his godfather Sirius Black (the always-reliable Gary Oldman), and Harry learns that corruption and fear mongering has beset the governance of the world of magic, and that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, aka Lord Voldemort, is actively recruiting an army of dark wizards, whose ultimate intent is to push the world into ruin.

Harry heads off to Hogwarts with much on his mind, and he increasingly isolates himself, buckling under the burdens that have been placed upon him. He is greeted by a new Defense of the Dark Arts professor, Dolores Umbridge (an amazing Imelda Staunton), who is also a representative of the Ministry of Magic. Umbridge bgins a cold and calculated overhaul of Hogwarts, turning it into a place of draconian rule, governed by fear, and controlled by torture and punishment.

It's quite clear what Rowling and Yates are aiming for, as this is a thinly-veiled allegory to the governance of the United States and United Kingdom, where the press is a tool of a corrupted government, and information is the most powerful weapon of change. Throughout the film there are allusions to underground insurgencies, social upheaval, and revolution. There is talk of people's armies, of Orwellian law, and abused authority. All of which has very little to do with magic, but it remains intriguing because these are issues of the human psyche, and to place it within a world where magic and mysterious creature are an afterthought serves to hammer down the point with great force and effect.

For a children's / young adult film, HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX is a refreshingly political film, one that can be digested without feeling like they've been pandered to. Yates has proven to be a capable director of actors, but admittedly, his grasp of visuals are not up to the gargantuan standards that the series has set. The film is entrenched in darkness, which is appropriate for the subject matter- Dolores Umbridge has turned Hogwarts into a prison, a dungeon where no fun or exploration can exist. The only scene of joy is a scene of rebellion, marked with impressive fireworks and the laughter of children.

Truth be told, it's lack of visual punch aside, I felt this was the best of the Harry Potter films, and should I venture down this route, I regarded it as the EMPIRE STRIKES BACK of the series. This is because of the human element of the film, the realization that the evil of the dark side is prevalent and very, very real, that sometimes the enemy may very well be our neighbours, and worse yet, ourselves. I have bought into this world of magic completely, and for the first time I could relate, on a very personal level, to the trials and tribulations of the characters within.

Credit for this goes to the actors, who have all matured from pantomime to real dramatic thespians. Particularly strong is the work of Radcliffe, who by now must be so familiar with Harry Potter that he is reacting instinctively as the character. I'm sure these kids have also benefit from working with some of the finest actors in the world in Oldman, Staunton, and the truly remarkable talents of Alan Rickman, Emma Thompson and Ralph Fiennes. Collectively, the cast has successfully populated Hogwarts with real people, and not sketches of characters from a book.

I simply adore this series, its characters, its creatures, and its settings. Even at its darkest, Rowling's sprawling masterpiece of a boy wizard learning to deal with responsibilities of power is something that always lights a fire within my heart. She and her collaborators have managed to capture the true moments of wonderment, joy and pain that growing up entails. Perhaps it is this universal appeal that has made Harry Potter such an icon of the young and the old. Generations from now we will look back upon this body of work and it will have stood the test of time, because its sentiments and heart are timeless.

We can only strive to create such work, and in the meantime we stand in its awe and take from it pleasures and joys that have indescribable value.

TRANSFORMERS

Directed by Michael Bay

God I hate Michael Bay. He's the purveyor of some of the shittiest, most expensive films ever made- following the excellent THE ROCK, he's made turd after inconceivable turd. And yet lo! He gets handed, by none other than Steven Spielberg, the coolest film franchise ever made: the venerable TRANSFORMERS.

But who am I to second guess Spielberg? Who am I to doubt his decision making skills, especially after ruining beautiful films like SAVING PRIVATE RYAN and ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE with sentimental endings that had no business being there in the first place? Who am I to do such things?

My personal apprehensions aside, Steven Spielberg knows what he's doing, and in the end, he is right- Michael Bay was the right man to bring a live action TRANSFORMERS to the big screen. Nobody knows how to blow things up better than Bay, and regarding the context of the base material- a set of plastic transforming toys- he doesn't have to flex his brain too hard.

If you're looking for emotional subtext, then seek out the original TRANSFORMERS:THE MOVIE. In that masterpiece we have psychoanalytic relationships, cold-blooded murder, the Junkions, Orson Welles' final performance, and of course, "The Touch." Michael Bay's TRANSFORMERS contains none of theses things, but it sets out on a far different path and achieves its goals with marvelous results.

The story: Sam Witwicky is a typical geek with high hopes of getting popular (and laid) with the purchase of a new car. He ventures with his father to a used car dealer (a scene stealing Bernie Mac) and finds a mysterious, beaten-up Camaro that seems to have a life of its own. We can only guess what happens afterwards.

And that's about it. Not much to chew on, but that's not the purpose of this film. I often lament that there is a distinct lack of intelligence in today's films, but I have to remind myself that not every film aims to be THE SEVENTH SEAL or RASHOMON. Bay's TRANSFORMERS is a true popcorn action flick, and the nice thing is that while it lacks in depth, it never stoops so low to insult our intelligence. It is loud, sexy, and violent, and best of all features giant robots pummeling each other in crowded city streets. What more could you want?

Indeed, the film packs in all the best features of a great summer film- giant explosions, glossy production values, blatant product placement, well-crafted CGI, plucky humor and in-jokes, sexy girls, and it's loud as hell. Unlikely box-office hero Shia LaBeouf provides a strong and amiable lead performance as Sam Witwicky, and he carries the film on his young shoulders. Sam's love interest Mikaela Banes is played by Megan Fox, who, like all the women in Michael Bay's films, does an excellent (nay, Oscar worthy) job in looking smoking hot and being in perpetual heat.

But the real stars here are the robots, and while they are marvels of CGI and virtual engineering, I found them strangely lacking compared to the beloved toys and cartoons of my youth. Bay's robots look more like ultra-complex erector sets, with billions of exposed parts that makes them visually busy. It seems that the design of the robots evolves over the course of the film, as they become more like proper Transformers and less like Japanese assembly-line prototypes. The complex designs of the robots make some of the fight sequences overpopulated with details, and renders them as an incomprehensible pile of gears and pneumatic pumps. But I'm being overly picky here, as I'm far too close to the base designs, and I will always have the critical eye of a purist.

Credit goes to the fans however for insisting that Peter Cullen, the original voice of Optimus Prime, reprise his role as the leader of the Autobots. Cullen's deep baritone brought back an immeasurable level of authenticity to the film, this despite the many, many departures and liberties that the film takes. But even with these proclivities, the film successfully works within its own logic, and it makes the implausible rather palpable, which is a feature of any great science fiction film.

And I have to show my true colours here- I've always been a loyal Decepticon. All the Transformers I owned were Decepticons, save for one Autobot (Bumblebee, my favourite Autobot, who is paid excellent screen time in the film). I was quite peeved with the complete lack of development of the Decepticons, as we are given none of the internal power struggles of rank and file within the opposition. While the Autobots come off as well-rounded and complete characters, the Decepticons remain one dimensional and hollow. Hopefully we'll see more of them in the sequel (which there will be one).

Look- TRANSFORMERS is no BLADE RUNNER, but it is immensely enjoyable. Like GRINDHOUSE, it reminded me of why I love going to the movies. It is irreverent, pure escapist fun, and it brought back the feeling of playing with those marvelous little toys, transforming them over and over, reveling in the ingenuity and badass coolness of it all.

My only regret is the omission of the most useless Autobot of all time- Perceptor, the fucking microscope. Pretending like he was the brains of the operation. Bah. We all knew it was Huffer who was the boss.

ONCE

Written and Directed by John Carney

Art has the unique ability of transport- a glance, a note, a shot, they all have the power to navigate our memories and bring us back to a specific point in our lives. For me it is the power of music that is most effective in this endeavour, as my life has a very distinct and clear soundtrack, each song dog-tagged with an emotional moment that always seems to revolve around the notion of love lost or gained.

Perhaps the movies have given us this overtly romanticized notion of "our song," but I think it is not too far from reality- there is a song for every moment of our lives. Not in the sense that a particular song was playing in the background when a specific moment happened, rather there are songs that express what we're feeling better than any words can do. That is the true magic of music, of art.

It's hard for me to express, so how fortunate am I that the tiny no-budget Irish independent film ONCE has done a far better job explaining the phenomenon of the power of song. The film is a capsule of a moment, with a soundtrack crafted to embrace these memories in our minds and hearts forever.

ONCE is a musical romance in the most traditional sense. As in every romantic film, the guy and the girl meet cute, exchange witty banter, sing songs together, and away we go. But what is so remarkable about ONCE is that it is firmly set in reality, the songs are meaningful beyond words, and the people involved are real flesh and blood, and not caricatures of people in love.

The guy and the girl (who do not have names, so as to imply the universality of the relationship) are two people on the fringes of society. He is a vacuum cleaner repairman by day and a busker by night, singing songs of his own invention on the sidewalks of Dublin for the pennies of the occasional passersby. She is a Czech immigrant, doing odd jobs and living in a flat shared with her mother and daughter, and a host of other immigrants.

The girl hears boy sing one evening, and she loves what she hears. Herself a musician, she offers an opportunity to sing one of his songs together in a musical instrument shop, he on his guitar and she on piano. He accepts, and the first inkling of a common bond is established.

The girl is, as in most romantic films of this nature, a quirky, attractive, free spirit, but as the guy and the audience learns in an awkward scene, she is not the stereotypical muse who serves to only inspire beautiful songs of longing. She is, rather, just another wounded soul, just like him, in need of a companion and some comfort. Music is the bridge over this gap, and it is used to brilliant effect to convey the inner turmoil and common desires of two people who could be no more different.

It's not until later that we understand who these songs are really about, and it is a far more romantic gesture than I can describe. Through these songs we understand that we have a different love for different people. It reminds me, fittingly, of an old Irish proverb that my grandfather (who is Indian, not Irish) told me some time ago:

"A man has three loves in his life; his mother, whom he loves the longest, his wife, whom he loves the most, and his sweetheart, whom he loves the best."

ONCE encapsulates this proverb perfectly, and the final shot of the film is the ultimate affirmation of this belief. The romance of this film is so apt because it does not decry that there is an ultimate love, rather, love is diverse and it creates the most beautiful, complex, painful, and rich tapestries out of our lives.

The performances are top notch with Glen Hansard, real-life lead singer of the brilliant Irish band The Frames, playing the boy with a wounded innocence and awkward charm. He is a good lad, raised well by his parents, and, as with most artists, is relatively modest about the power of his art. The girl, played by Marketa Irglova, transcends the otherworldly intelligence of her character, a woman who has been hurt but has a lot to give- but only to the right person, someone whom she can trust, someone who can share her pain and joy with.

Director John Carney, a musician himself, made the bold choice of choosing musicians over actors who could sing, and his treatment of the actors and the material remains true to the struggles and joys of musicians, who create within their own unique idiom. Shot largely using a telephoto lenses from a distance, Carney allows his actors to roam about Dublin and play their roles true to real life. We don't get the cliché close ups showing love and longing on the faces of the protagonists, rather, it is the music that is the window into these people's hearts and souls.

Like any fond memory, my recollection of ONCE doesn't really pay the film justice. As I listen to the soundtrack I'm taken back to the lives of these two complete strangers, and I recall my time spent with them, and through their music, I feel like they've shared a very special moment in their lives with me. I wish I could reciprocate, sharing my stories of love lost and found. But alas, they're just characters in a film, and I shall reserve my tales for my friends and family, told over coffee or dinner on lazy summer evenings, in both strange and comfortable places, with a song for every moment. And I'm sure I'll bring up this film when I do.

ONCE is one of the best films of the year, if not the best. Seek it out.

THE FOUNTAIN

THE FOUNTAIN
Written and Directed by Darren Aronofsky

There's something to be said about artistic hubris. On one end of the spectrum, it is a driving force to better one's craft, to keep pushing boundaries, to advance the mediums in which we work. The other end of the spectrum drives the artist to levels of erudite arrogance, leading the artist to believe that they see something beyond the mere mortal.

I felt both ends of the spectrum watching Darren Aronofsky's THE FOUNTAIN. Aronofsky is an artist I greatly admire, and I was both impressed and shocked with the direction he has taken his art. Ultimately, I have to view the film as an artistic success, but an intellectual misfire.

Set over a period of 1000 years, THE FOUNTAIN is the story of one couple, spread over three incarnations. In each incarnation, one of the lovers faces the threat of death, and the other is charged with the responsibility of saving their life. The responsibility is not out of obligation, but rather eternal love and the avoidance of the inevitable pains of separation.

The first of the stories is set during the Spanish Inquisition, wherein the Queen of Spain (Rachel Weisz) charges her young conquistador Tomas (Hugh Jackman) with the task of finding the Tree of Life, which has been uprooted from the Garden of Eden to an undisclosed location within the Mayan forests. The tree is the key to the defeat of the Inquisition, and the lock that will seal the love of the Queen and the conquistador forever.

The second story is set in modern times in an undisclosed location, where neurological scientist Thomas (Jackman, again) is fighting time to discover a cure for brain cancer, which his beloved wife Izzy (Weisz) is terminally stricken with. A mysterious substance lends promise to Izzy, but in case the cure is not found, she charges Thomas with the task of completing her novel, which is completed save for the last chapter.

The third story is set in the 26th century, again in an undisclosed location. We see Tom (Jackman, lastly), head shaven and practicing tai chi, floating in a transparent orb that contains a small island and a singular tree. Tom speaks to the baobob and chews on its bark, promising it that everything will be fine. The orb hurtles through space, heading toward a golden light in the distant ether.

The constant theme here is the personal agony of loss, and Aronofsky is relentless in his assault of tears, groans, and frustration. This is a immensely sad picture, one that touches upon the universal fear of losing those we love most. As a theme it is relevant, but the constructs surrounding it are so intellectually overwrought, despite the fact that they are achingly beautiful to look at.

The design of this film is immaculate. Cinematographer Matty Libatique envelopes the film in darkness, punctuating form with sharp blades of incandescent light. The art direction is inspired, reconstructing the past and the present in monolithic shapes and dead tones, and pulling futurescapes seemingly inspired by one half Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's illustrations, and the other half from the liner notes of a Tool album. That's a good thing.

After taking in the aesthetics of the picture, including its handsome leads, we're then unfortunately bludgeoned with the preening pseudo-intellectualism of Aronofsky's bulky script. The principles and logic, while played as sophistication, are in actuality rather elementary. Behind the impressive quoting of Mayan mythology, historical references, and metaphysical posturing lies the base theme that everything must die. Oh, and love lives forever. Well, okay.

I guess watching THE FOUNTAIN gave me the feeling of reading a Wikepedia article on something I vaguely knew about, and after reading the article I know I should be smarter, but in some way I feel I've been had. I've learned nothing new, and there's something hollow about the summarization. It's kind of like saying the Cliff Notes version of Macbeth is better and more accurate than the actual book. And the real turnoff is that Aronofsky and his cast and crew are so committed to believing in the greater, deeper meaning of the film that they come off as silly. It's like a kid watching a puppy being born, and then making the assumption that he knows all there is to know about sex. The filmmakers take intellectual molehills and turn them into preening, foolish mountains, and they read into the perceived complexity of their subject way too much.

I have no doubts that Aronofsky is a brilliant man- his films PI and REQUIEM FOR A DREAM are some of the smartest works I've seen, and the praise for his intelligence has been universal. But perhaps he's bought a bit too much into the praise, and forgotten the one tenant that constitutes a great artist or scientist: curiosity. It's the acceptance of not knowing anything at all, of wanting to discover. THE FOUNTAIN postures to know it all, and thinks that it's our privilege to see it for the first time and stand in its awe.

Alas, I don't think my hubris would allow that.

APOCALYPTO

APOCALYPTO
Co-written and Directed by Mel Gibson

It's very difficult to write a review of this film without having some subconscious reference back to Mel Gibson's personal politics, so let me try and clear the air before we begin. Mr. Gibson's politics and beliefs may very well be troubling, but as a director his skills merit artistic respect. The bigger quandary is that, in today's world of art, it is personality that weighs heavier than talent, and in such an environment is it really possible to divorce the art from the entity behind it? It's a difficult task, but not impossible- we respect Polanski's work despite his criminal background, we still regard D.W. Griffith as the godfather of American cinema despite his making one of the most racist films in cinematic history, and the writings of Nietzsche are still highly regarded despite his being a misogynist. So it's not impossible, and what I write is in respect to Gibson's execution of his art, and not the man himself.

On to the matter at hand...

Man has been at war since his inception- not with himself, but rather with nature. Since the first development of some level of cognitive reasoning, perhaps the creation of the first tool, man has been in an antagonistic conflict with nature, trying to bend her and make her submit to our desires which we call civilization. We have manipulated her, polluted her, and defined her within our own paradigm, all with a complete lack of sensitivity or any fear of repercussion.

Archaeological data suggests that ancient civilizations had a more intrinsic relationship with nature, enlisting deities that were representative of natural forces, done to establish boundaries and god-fearing respect. In our modern development, this relationship was lost- perhaps to the spread of Christianity, or perhaps, as aforementioned, to the progression of science and technology. Or maybe both. Either way, our respect for nature has waned and is on the brink of extinction.

It is in retrospect then that I feel Mel Gibson's Mayan-language epic APOCALYPTO is a fair warning to what we as a civilization have in store for us, should our war with nature persist. Upon first glance, the film looks like a simple action-adventure, a chase-driven adrenaline ride meant to get the blood flowing and the eyes popping. But Gibson is not so simple a filmmaker, and his intentions for the film bleed much deeper than what is on the surface. If THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST was Gibson's uneven ode to submission, then APOCALYPTO is a likewise testament to man's ill-fated defiance to a higher power.

The story is basic- a Mayan tribe leads a peaceful existence in the forest. Their idyllic life is disrupted by a raid from a more "civilized" tribe, and the villagers are taken away, led to a giant temple, and placed upon the altar of the Sun God, to be sacrificed to satiate the deity. Among these abductees is Jaguar Paw (Rudy Youngblood in a sterling performance), a family man who has within him a strong natural instinct to read danger from his surroundings. By celestial blessing, he is spared the sacrifice and escapes from his captors, and is chased through the forest.

And that's it. Gibson spares us from typical Hollywood cliche of over-explaining this dead culture, bypassing pedagogy and dropping us right in the thick of things, giving us a deep sense of discovery and curiosity. His intention is to not educate us about Mayan culture, but rather experience it.

There are no doubts that the Mayan and Aztec civilizations were beyond violent, many of the brutalities stemming from early machinations of the unison of church and state. We're shown the holy men and emperors manipulating the masses with practice, ritual, and fear. The balance of power weighs heavily in the aristocracy and the religious institutions, and their hunger for power is satiated in smoke and mirrors, through the horrific practice of live human sacrifice. Again, the film gives little academic explanation of what these rituals mean, but it is exhaustive in its accuracy (I can attest to this, as I studied Mayan cultures as part of my Anthropology degree).

Gibson is to be credited in that never once are these civilizations portrayed as savages- their practices and beliefs, while draconian by today's standards, are given treatment without judgment. The fear and anxiety we feel is for the characters, and does not stem from a critique of cultural practise. A commendable feat, given the nature of the subject.

Jaguar Paw's escape is simply brilliant in execution, a nerve-wracking sequence of events that serve to strip these complex civilizations down to primal creatures, where decorum is ditched for the sole purpose of survival. It's here where we see nature rear her vindictive head, preying on the men who pursue Jaguar Paw, giving penance to those that defy and attempt to mutilate her design. She in turn cooperates with Jaguar Paw, a man who respects and is in harmony with nature, a man who understands his place in the bigger picture. It is nature who reveals the true man within- a creature among many other creatures, an entity who is privileged to share life with the trees, the soil, and the biomes surrounding him.

Gibson's vision of nature is therefore both menacing and nurturing, and it is true to the beliefs of the ancient civilizations that placed equal fear and respect in her. In the final shots we see Jaguar Paw looking upon the advancements of a new civilization, and he ultimately turns his back upon it, placing his trust within the forest.

A bold statement, but a necessary one. Perhaps we have abused this planet, and being that she is stronger than us, she can squash us in one foul swoop. She has been patient with us, giving us the benefit of the doubt that we will see the err in our ways. She has at times warned and punished us, with tremors and cracks in the soil, and ferocious punches of water and fire that have decimated the strongest shelters we could muster up.

APOCALYPTO, as its name suggests, is about the destruction of a highly advanced civilization, but it is also a revelation, a prophecy, that if we continue along a path of defiance against nature, than we too shall crumble. Our civilization is one that decidedly lacks humility, and has an arrogance of invincibility that bears repercussion. Just as Mayan men were sacrificed to causes of little understanding, how different is it today that we send innocent men to war for a conflict that is cryptic in cause? We assume foolish power over our fellow citizens, boorish superiority, murderous intent justified by religious fundamentalism, and have leaders who assume the power of gods.

Certainly the film carries its share of flaws, at times playing to the predictable and reveling in spectacle over substance. These instances disrupt the suspension of belief and tend to remind us that we are watching a film, but for the most part the film is entirely convincing, from its spectacular settings and cinematography, to fine, earnest performances from a cast of unknowns. Not since Werner Herzog's masterpiece AGUIRRE, WRATH OF GOD have I felt literally transported to such a distant place and time, and APOCALYPTO gives good reason to make such a comparison. This is Gibson's best film to date, and an experience to be cherished.

object width="425" height="350">

BRICK

BRICK
Written and Directed by Rian Johnson

To call Rian Johnson's debut feature BRICK overslick is an understatement. The film bursts at the seams with coded, almost indecipherable dialogue and performances that dangerously veer to the realms of pantomime, invoking the spirits of WEST SIDE STORY and CASABLANCA. While BRICK has disparate elements of those aforementioned films, it is perhaps most true to the single most maligned genre in film history: the film noir.

Hollywood's idea of what they consider noir cinema is rooted in the myopic base translation of the word: black film. Films that are shot in the dark, covered in shadows and decrepitude, and dealing with grisly subjects blindly get slapped with the term noir. While it can be verified that film noir does contain a lot of those elements, there is something much deeper to the genre, something which hasn't been tapped since the 60s and 70s.

Watch noir films like LE SAMOURAI (which I personally consider to be the greatest noir film ever made), RIFIFI, TOUCH OF EVIL, THE MALTESE FALCON and THE THIRD MAN and you'll see something else is at play. Much like the cowboy western, the protagonists of film noir run their lives according to a strict set of laws, or credo. The difference is that with cowboys, the credo is based in altruism, and the credo of hard boiled detective in film noir is based in something far more troubling: obsession. This is the heart of noir cinema.

Rian Johnson gets this, and to demonstrate his understanding of the genre, he sets BRICK within sunny Southern California, with nary a shadow in sight. Rather than plumbing the depths of sewers, seedy alleys and warehouses, Johnson's atmosphere is an affluent suburban high school. These choices establish that the darkness of noir comes from within the characters, and not the surroundings. Whether deliberate or not, it is a master stroke by Johnson, whose focus on character is marvelous. He really, really knows what he's doing.

We start the film with the living hell that is the life of the gumshoe, the hard boiled detective embodied within loner and perpetual outsider Brendan Frye, played with ferocious precision by Joseph Gordon Levitt. Brendan Frye is too smart for his own good, and when the girl he loved shows up dead, his obsession to consummate a love he never had takes over him and he will not relent in his pursuit of the girl's killer.

Frye investigates the entire social strata of the American high school set, from the privileged rich kids to the low life stoners. His approach is tough and direct- he knows that to ascertain the truth from fake people, he must bring out their real persona. Frye does this by irritation, by dogged persistence, by clever rebuttal, and he pays the price for such tenacity. He is beaten, broken, and shattered, and he wears his bloodstains and scars as a reminder of his obsession. Like the true hard boiled detective, he won't let a few bruises stand in his way- he will get his man, and if he has to he will die trying.

Frye's journey takes him to the realm of seedy characters who all have ulterior motives. Their names are equally ambiguous- Dode, Tug, Tangles, Biff and The Pin. The only person Frye can trust is his sidekick, the school genius known only as The Brain, who helps him decipher clues and give him the low down. Frye shows little appreciation for anyone, and he knows investing too much in someone could cost him dearly, that is, until he meets a dame named Laura...

I love this stuff. BRICK is a throwback to classic pulp, it lives within a universe populated by scumbags, whores and bastards. It takes itself seriously and laughs at itself at the same time, occasionally reminding us that we are still watching high school kids doing nothing but fucking around. It is a taught yarn, and the dramatic conclusion is one that hits you like...well, hits you like a brick. The brilliant script is aided by Johnson's keen eye for visuals and his inventiveness with the camera and the soundtrack. Cinematographer Steve Yedlin and composer Larry Seymour help create a world of shadows without using overtly harsh light- the atmosphere of BRICK is one thick with miasma, and not literal shadows. The film may not have the stereotypical look of noir but it sure as hell feels like it, and then some.

And a few words about Joseph Gordon Levitt. He is, in my opinion, one of the finest actor of his generation. He is intelligent, he lives in his part, and most importantly, he is fearless. His performance in BRICK is flawless and terrifying, and we are witnessing a performer who is nowhere near the height of his powers. With BRICK and his previous film, the amazing MYSTERIOUS SKIN (one of the best movies I've seen in a long, long time), Gordon Levitt is on his way to building an impressive body of work. He deserves to be recognized, and I stated it before and I'll state it again: he is the next Sean Penn, the next Robert DeNiro. High praise for a guy who was the least appreciated element of 3RD ROCK FROM THE SUN.

BRICK is one of those films that has divided audiences. You either love it or you hate it, and there is little to no middle ground. But that is what classic noir is- straightforward, a descent into madness, a one way ticket to a personal hell. There is no other direction but down, and those looking for redemption need not apply. This is the stuff of nightmares, and when executed properly and with respect, it's one of the most beautiful things in the world to witness. BRICK is no exception.

Filmcraft: ACTING LESSON WITH NICOLE KIDMAN

As a director it is my responsibility to give my actors the best tools and information I can for them to make informed choices about their characters. There are several components to this- back story, spine, allegory, and relativity among others. A skilled actor has the intellectual and observational capacity to draw on their life experiences or the experiences of others to extract the truth of the moment from said information. It is a skill that requires courage and panache- the actor is baring her emotions and inner demons to the public, which is terrifying, and she must also deliver the truth in a way that is compelling. It's too easy to act through histrionics and hand gesticulation- the best actors make choices that are subtle, choices that don't involve dialogue, screaming or tears. They use the only instrument they have- their bodies- and they use it masterfully.

Now I've seen many great performances by many great actors who employ this art, but over and over again I return to this particular performance by Nicole Kidman in the film BIRTH as the paramount example of the actor's craft.

BIRTH, directed by Jonathan Glazer, was an uneven film and based on a wobbly script, but it is worth a watch for Kidman's performance. Hers is an exercise in subtlety, of demonstrating the small physical choices that an actor must make to tell a story in the most compelling and affecting way possible. It is an amazing performance, and worthy of our time and study.

Before you view this clip of the film, here's a little back story. Kidman plays Anna, a New York socialite who has been struck with a tremendous tragedy- her young husband, Sean, has died. Time passes, and Anna attempts to move on in a new life and love, when suddenly a mysterious young boy shows up and wishes to speak to Anna. He tells her that he is Sean. Naturally, Anna dismisses the boy, but the boy begins to reveal truths of her relationship with Sean that only she and her deceased husband would know. She still refuses to believe the boy, as she cannot accept whatever supernatural logic that may be at play.

In this scene Anna goes to the opera with her lover. She is still contemplating the boy, as to whether or not he is really her dead husband. Watch:



Quite an unusual shot, no?

If you have come this far, try watching the clip again, this time placing yourself within the mindset of the character. Look at the small, subtle choices that Kidman makes, and be aware that we are privy to the transition of her thoughts.

We begin with Anna's complete distraught and disbelief that her husband may very well be alive in the body of a child. She is confused, maligned, torn between reality and possibility.

We then see her move to reasoning, forcing logic to conform to what she wants most- for her beloved husband to be alive again. She is in the process of convincing herself, of rewriting science and philosophy.

Finally, we see acceptance- she is willing to believe her new logic. There is relief and anticipation- she wants to see Sean again. She looks off to the side, no longer interested in the opera or the company of her lover. She has found love again, and she wants to be there.

Imagine the complexity of piecing this performance together, of what Kidman had to draw upon to expose herself to such raw emotion with a camera right in her face, recording every tic and gesture. If you don't think this is difficult, stand in front of a mirror and try acting out the progression I've just described, without saying a word. It's frustrating as hell to pull it off successfully.

Kidman puts equity in small nuances because she understands the format. She is in extreme close-up with a wide lens, so she knows that even the smallest movement will translate huge on the screen. She shows remarkable restraint, limiting her movement to her mouth and eyes, conveying confusion and discovery with instinctual reactions.

And that's the key word here- reaction. Kidman is not acting out the process of information, she's reacting to it, just as you or I would were we to be in such a predicament in real life. She allows herself to be emotionally available to the information presented to her by the director and the script- she's not judging the information, rather she's allowing it to attack her. This requires tremendous vulnerability and trust, and is indicative of the bond between actor and director, and the actor and the material.

The lesson imparted here for both actors and directors is the faith in instincts, or the ability to react to information truthfully and honestly. One cannot argue with the truth, and when it is parlayed so convincingly and so naked, it speaks to all of us in a universal fashion. We cannot help but be moved by it. Once mastered and understood, it is an art whose power is rivaled by few.

Nicole Kidman won Oscar praise for her myriad other performances, but it is this performance that shows her skill. As a director I am humbled to see acting like this, and it gives me something to strive for. To me, there is no greater joy than seeing actors execute at the height of their powers. It is a rush unlike any other, both for the performer and we the audience. We need more of it.

LOST BUILDINGS

LOST BUILDINGS
Written by Ira Glass and animated by Chris Ware

I'm going to say something that will make me sound like a hipster even though I'm about as far away from even being associated with the term "hip." I love NPR's THIS AMERICAN LIFE, and I've loved it since it ever came on the air here in Chicago. Nyah. Tblpptpt. Hipsters who revel in its quirky stories will claim the same, that they knew about it before anyone else, but dammit I was there a long time ago. My claim is for real- I've been an avid NPR listener since freshman year of high school (I'm 31- you do the math). Just had to get that off my chest.

Every year I call in and pledge support for my public radio and television stations, and every year they send me some cool little gift in return. Last year I got a set of tumblers, and this year I was supposed to get tickets to the Ravinia festival. Unfortunately they had run out of tickets, so they sent me a book instead. Good things happen for a reason, and what I received was one of the most startling and beautiful books / films I'd ever seen.

It was a lovely little book called LOST BUILDINGS, and it was accompanied with a DVD that featured a 22-minute story written by Ira Glass, writer and host of THIS AMERICAN LIFE, and features animation by Chicago's resident reluctant genius Chris Ware, he of JIMMY CORRIGAN fame. The story was of the real-life exploits of Tim Samuelson, who as a young boy became obsessed with the buildings of Louis Sullivan, one of Chicago's premiere architects and creator of some of the most stunning structures the world had ever seen. As Tim grows up he becomes exposed to the realities of urban development, and spirals into horror and despair as he sees developers tear down Sullivan buildings and replace them with behemoth steel skyscrapers. Tim joins an impassioned group of people who dedicate their lives to saving Chicago's buildings, and finds camaraderie with one gentleman in particular. Their enthusiasm and shared joy of Sullivan buildings comes literally crashing down on them, and the story is punctuated with a tragic sense of what we hold dear as a society, and our ideological divide in our valuation of art.

Ira Glass' intelligent writing and narration brings an immediacy and humanity to the subject, deferring to Samuelson in the correct balance between interview and story. The audio is accentuated by the soundtrack, featuring a guitar rendition of Philip Glass' amazing masterpiece 'Mishima.'

But the real star here is Ware's artwork. Every frame of the 300 illustrations on this DVD are meticulously drawn, and the architecture of Louis Sullivan is lovingly reproduced through the eyes of Samuelson, as both a boy and adult. Ware has given mythic significance to these buildings, while also providing a human context to the brick, mortar, plaster and steel. The intimacy, elaborate framing, and pacing of the three elements- narration, music, and image- is simply immaculate. This is hands down one of the best and most unusual documentaries you're likely to ever see.

The book that accompanies the DVD is an achingly sad document of the fate of the Sullivan buildings in Chicago. If it weren't for the insightful text, we would think we were looking at photos of Armageddon, of the barren landscapes of World War II. And the results are equally tragic. It may seem ridiculous to place so much emotional equity within a building, but I felt I understood why Samuelson was so fervent about the preservation of Chicago's old, historic buildings.

See, I live within my home, and almost all of my daily functions happen here. My memories are encased and formed here. My home enables me to do this within comfort, within a safe place. My view of my home is shared in my view of the Earth- as a living thing, a complex network of systems designed to sustain life, to inspire, to nurture. The building I live in was built in 1901, and it is as solid today as when it was built. Old buildings were built with humanity in mind, with the concept of sustaining generations, of providing shelter and inspiration for centuries. Today's new construction is built with a different agenda- profit. Poor construction, sub par prefabricated materials, and putting just enough effort to pass a legal standard of living space is the hallmark of today's buildings. They are built to fall apart in ten years, in order to spur the population to either keep reinvesting in their homes, or to pick up and move to an entirely new building. These cookie-cutter buildings show little in terms of design- they invoke zero creativity, no human spirit, no warmth or desire to be different.

I happen live down the street from one of the few remaining Sullivan buildings in Chicago. Located in Lincoln Square, the building is a small wonder of art- no detail was spared, no aesthetic denied. It is a revelation to look at, to run one's hands over its solid facade and explore the intricate designs. They don't build dwellings like this anymore. It's a dying art, sacrificed at the altars of profitability and greed. The artisans who specialize in this kind of masonry are a dying species, and are deemed far too expensive to be practical. To build a Sullivan building today requires time, patience, and funds, of which today's society has plenty of, but is unwilling to yield.

We must preserve the architecture of the past, because unlike today, it was made with people in mind. I see the expansive suburbs of Chicago and see uniformity, lack of individuality, and an uninspired submission to be mediocre. Apparently we are ok being just another number. We sell our souls for temporary comfort, and in turn destroy the foundations of our inspiration and life.

I think I can say that for things even beyond architecture. Sad.


LOST BUILDINGS can be purchased at the NPR shop at NPR.org, or at the THIS AMERICAN LIFE website. It's a bit on the pricey side, but consider it your donation to good television and radio.

Below is not a trailer for LOST BUILDINGS, but another wonderful collaboration between Ira Glass and Chris Ware. Enjoy!

OLD JOY

OLD JOY
Directed by Kelly Reichardt

What is Americana? We tend to associate it with things that are unique to our own culture- baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, Chevrolets, etc.. But what these things are in fact are elements of nostalgia, of a period of American life that was perceived to be better, more pure, more altruistic. more principled. Americana is, in actuality, a representation of what constitutes us as people, and while this includes the aforementioned nostalgic items, it also includes our despairs, our desires, and those things which have become marginalized and deemed as unimportant to the fabric of our existence. Perhaps then the best description of Americana is the segment of life that the American Dream has either passed by or forgot. It is those people and cultural tenants that live amongst us, but never really with us.

Kelly Reichardt's OLD JOY is the proverbial slice of Americana, a quiet but never lazy account of marginalized Americans who seek something outside of the base provisions that our country has to offer. It puts forth the assertion that when all has been provided, is that where true happiness lies? Or is there more we must seek out?

Set in Portland, Oregon, the story begins with Mark (Daniel London), a early thirtysomething who sits in his yard meditating while his very pregnant wife blends up a green shake that is probably a lot more healthy than it looks appetizing. Mark receives a phone call from Kurt, an old friend whom he hasn't seen in ages. Kurt offers Mark a trip to relax before the birth of his child, and proposes a hike to the Cascade Mountains, where a natural spring can be found. Mark accepts, and despite the apprehensions of his wife, sets out with his dog Lucy to join Kurt in an overnight excursion into Oregon's wilderness.

Kurt (brilliantly played by folk musician Will Oldham of Palace Music and Bonnie "Prince" Billie fame) is a bit of a mess when we meet him. Disheveled, carefree and devoid of direction, his life could not be more different from that of his friend. Mark has a roof over his head, a Volvo, a job and a pregnant wife at home. He is the archetype of the American lifestyle, one based in comfort and surroundings of things that add value to life. In the initial conversations between Kurt and Mark, we see hints of a past that was genuinely fun and carefree, of regaling in the spontaneity of youth and youthful exuberance. While it is never said, it is implied that Mark has moved on to adulthood, and Kurt remains in limbo, wandering the boundaries of maturity.

Kurt and Mark pack up the Volvo and drive out to the woods. In the background we hear the chatter of talk radio, of questions of the state of the nation, elections, and bipartisan politics. The radio fades as the men reach the woods, replaced by the aimless guitar pickings on the soundtrack by Yo La Tengo. The music, coupled with the stunning surroundings of the Pacific Northwest, create a dream landscape that is beautiful beyond words. Cinematographer Peter Sillen's camera drinks up the colours of the forest, spilling multitudes of shades of green, yellows and browns across the screen, offset by a crystalline blue sky. This film contains some of the most striking visuals I've seen since Thomas Riedelsheimer's RIVERS AND TIDES and Ron Fricke's BARAKA.

Kurt smokes a lot of weed and talks of contentment, of commitment, of times past and regrets for having lost touch with Mark. Mark is reserved, still feeling out what his friend has become, and he is still tied via cell phone to a busy life back home. Mark's wife periodically calls and makes sure everything is ok, and she is a constant reminder of Mark's domestic bliss and imprisonment. This is a quietly surprising element, especially considering the director of OLD JOY is a woman.

Kurt and Mark amble and talk, they get lost and they learn more about one another. Ultimately the spring is found, and Kurt reveals a truth that is both subtle and devastating. The men return home, changed, but still with some sense of purpose, for better or worse.

There have been many critics of this film, calling it listless and droning, but I would contend that they are stuck in their definitions of Americana. This is an America that they would prefer not to see, populated with people who want to get away and who seek something other than the nice car, the big house, the 2.5 kids and a garage. The men in OLD JOY do not, in the eyes of classical Americana, represent success. But they are smart people, and they are kind people, and what they seek is that which no amount of material or marital success can buy: a sense of self worth.

I simply loved this movie. It reminded me of my friends that I have lost and lost touch with, and made me think about how I remember those fond memories with these people. It made me think of a meeting I had with an old friend whom I had grown up with since I was a toddler. We went to college together, and while on campus we started to grow distant. After graduation we rarely saw each other again. He got married early and had kids, and I recently saw him again at my wedding.

It was awkward talking to him. We spent almost an hour rekindling fond memories of when we were kids- the stupid games we played, the first time we saw a naked woman on television, the basketball tournaments we entered, etc.. Those were good times. We tried desperately to rebuild that level of fun and communication that we once had, but it was proving quite difficult. He had changed. I had changed. Our world views had changed. He was a father. He'd become conservative, myself quite liberal. I thought to myself that if I were to meet him as a stranger today, I probably wouldn't be his friend, he probably would think the same of me. But we still loved each other. He was still my childhood friend, and I know I could still trust him, and he could trust me. But it just wasn't there. It felt hollow and empty.

Some time after the wedding I thought about my meeting with my friend. I called him and was honest with him, and said maybe we shouldn't try to rekindle what we had in the past. Maybe we should celebrate instead what we've become. My friend, always intelligent, always thoughtful, said it was a great idea. We still didn't have anything to talk about, but a tremendous weight was lifted off our shoulders. We could go on with our lives.

Watching OLD JOY was a revelation of that particular moment, encapsulated within lyrical and visual poetry so profound and subtle that it seeped into every facet of my mind and body. Do not listen to the detractors who call this film slow or hardly engaging- on the contrary, the film is constantly with us, beside us, inside us, pulling and pushing us for answers. We see in these two men the naked truth, the interactions with our friends and loved ones we want and ought to have.

The film's genius is in its ability to say so much with so little. The best example of this comes in a poetic allegory told by Kurt. He recalls a meeting with an old East Indian woman, who leaves him with one poignant line, a line that defines our love-hate relationship with our past:

"Sorrow is nothing but old joy."

We want things to be the way they used to be. In the comfort of our mother's arms. When someone always was there to take care of you. When you cried, there was a shoulder to lean upon. Somewhere along the line, we lost that. Everyone does. But many few of us have actually moved on. We pine for something that had a time and a place, and live with the frustration and hope that we will feel those comforts again. We can, but only in a different incarnation. It will never be the same, but cherish those memories for what they were.

In the final shots of OLD JOY we see Kurt wandering aimlessly about Portland. We don't know what he's up to, but it doesn't matter. One look at his actions and you know he is making a transition- for the better or worse, that is for us to decide. But it will never be like it used to be. Nothing in our lives ever is.

OLD JOY is available on DVD.

P.S. It is worthy to note that OLD JOY was made on a budget of $30,000. Thus proving that cinema can achieve stunning visuals and compelling stories by sheer virtuosity and practical application of intelligence and eye. In the age when the average Hollywood film costs in excess of $65 million to make, OLD JOY is a reminder of where the true equity in cinema is to be found.

CHOPPER

CHOPPER
Written and Directed by Andrew Dominik

I never killed anyone that didn't deserve it."
- Mark "Chopper" Read

There's justifiably been a lot of discussion about the nature of violence this week. We try to postulate the many causes of erratic and sociopath behaviour, and more times than not we come to a nebulous notion of hatred and fear. There is some inner demon that haunts these men and women who commit such violent crimes- the religious right would call it possession or sin, the scientists would call it the ego, the metaphysicians would call it a dark negative energy. I think there's an element to all of this that is universal, however, and that is the call for attention, which in turn is a function of loneliness.

In lieu of the Virginia Tech shootings- particularly the public release of videos, photos, and written screenplays by the gunman, I decided to revisit an old film that I thought might give me more clarity on the mindset of crime and publicity. I turned to Andrew Dominik's CHOPPER, a little-seen Australian film starring Eric Bana.

Bana (in one of the best performances you'll ever see, seriously) plays the real-life Mark "Chopper" Read, a hardened criminal serving seventeen years in the slammer for a variety of crimes from drug dealing, extortion, and attempted murder. An endlessly charismatic man, Chopper is also a man prone to violence stemming from a deep distrust of his fellow human being. He is a short fuse, an otherwise intelligent man whose literacy is shunned in the face of jealously and mistrust.

The film opens in a maximum security prison in Tasmania, and the clear divide between cliques of prisoners is established from the outset. Blurring the lines sits Chopper, shit-eating grin on his face, a man who defies categorization and doesn't care for it. To be given an archetype would be to meld in, and Chopper's thirst for attention drives him to acts of insane violence within the prison walls (including a scene involving self-mutilation that makes "Reservoir Dog" seem tame). He is determined to make sure that in whatever space he occupies, his name will be the one in the spotlight. Even when other inmates assault him, he is the one who gets more press then the assailant. From the moment we meet him, we know that Chopper has one goal in mind: to be the most notorious man in all of Australia.

But as bizarrely magnanimous as Chopper is, he is also the most hated man in Australia. Every other bloke has a contract out on him, and once released from prison, Chopper's life is one consumed by looking over his shoulder. Self-preservation becomes paramount, although the drive for attention follows close behind.

But it's not like the cops would let a nutcase like Chopper out on the streets and simply let him roam free. A relationship is established between Chopper and the fuzz, and we're never truly clear as to who in this relationship has the upper hand. Because of his history, the police know that Chopper will have the top criminals after his head, and that he is the bait they so desperately need. Conversely, Chopper uses the relationship with the police to carry out his dual plan to eliminate his enemies, and to make sure he gets some good press out of it. It is the most unholy of unions, to say the least.

Armed to the neck, Chopper traverses across Sydney and proceeds to harass, instigate and eventually murder those who seek him harm. These are not simple acts of vengeance, however, as they are coolly calculated- Chopper knows who should be maimed, and who should die. While Chopper himself comes off as a ranting, raving bulldog, we never lose sight of the fact that this is an intelligent man, one who has lucid vision in terms of the (literal) execution of his goals. Chopper's actions take him to the front page of media, when he is accused of killing a man in cold blood. He is acquitted of the murder, but is sent to serve time for a previous attempt of murder. With his face on the front page of papers all over Australia, Chopper couldn't be more happy with the verdict. He even proceeds to write a book in prison, and riding the notoriety of his reputation, the book becomes a bestseller and makes Chopper a very wealthy, and more importantly, very popular man.

Bu it's the final scene in the film that delivers the most poignant message, and its relevance to the recent events at Virginia Tech is revealing and bone-chilling. The film ends with Chopper in his cell, watching television with a pair of prison guards. The program is a news interview with Chopper, a tell-all about his new book. On television, Chopper is in fine form, cracking jokes, flirting with the newswoman, and exuding panache and cool. Watching the program, Chopper is in awe of himself, paying more attention however to the reactions of the prison guards, who treat him with the kindness and privilege of a celebrity client. The program ends, and the guards inform Chopper that it's time to lock up. They leave the cell, and shut the heavy metal door. We see Chopper alone in his cell, quiet. All he can do is stare at the wall. He no longer has an audience. He's back to being a loner. And for the first time in the film, we see some hint of sadness. The film ends.

It's one of the most poignant scenes I've ever seen, and the message it implies about the quest for attention rings true in every facet. Chopper got his fifteen minutes of fame, he rebuked his naysayers, and he was, for that moment, the ruler of his domain. But in one moment- the shutting of a door- he was alone again, back to where he started. Nothing gained, but much irreversible damage done. I see the same in Cho Seung-hui, the shooter at Virgina Tech. Why make a video? Why mail it to the local news media? It's a bitter indicative of a man seeking an audience, and like Mark "Chopper" Read, he was willing to do it at the maximum expense of others. Cho Seung-hui has successfully grabbed our attention, and he will be written in the history books, but his legacy as a man is already forgotten. He died a sad, lonely death. Like Chopper, I feel little sympathy for him, if anything I feel great pity for them. I feel like all that a normal person- a friend and not a doctor- could have done for people like Cho Seung-hui or Chopper was to simply ask them "how's your life going" and just listen to what they had to say.

And maybe that's the problem. A person who seeks attention never has an audience, because the audience has already judged them as not worthy their time. Cho Seung-hui probably wanted to be seen as a normal Joe. But he wasn't a normal Joe, he was a troubled man, who refused the help of others. He denied his audience by himself insisting that his behaviour was normal. He denied he needed help when a doctor told him he was a danger to himself. He saw himself as someone the world didn't understand, a tortured soul who stood for something true in a world full of falsities. But his truth was demented and flawed- he just could not accept that. It reminds me of a dialogue from the film, when Chopper makes the odd declaration:

"I'm just a bloody normal bloke. A normal bloke who likes a bit of torture."

So sad is the denial of truth, and the embracing of the absurd.

GRINDHOUSE

Every once in a while I feel plucky and venture onto IMDB.com, and make occasional postings on the infinite number of message boards that the site has to offer. I was feeling particularly frisky after seeing '300', and posted a message of how I found the film hollow, specifically how it's violence had no meaning and served no other purpose but to quell the bloodlust of 14-year old boys.

I took quite a beating at the hands of fanboys, who berated me for 'not getting it' and 'forcing family values' down their throats. Water off a duck's back, but it did reveal one thing to me: I do love a good violent movie, but it's been a while since I've seen one that put its violence within context, that had violence with purpose, impact, and ramification. '300' left me feeling upset and disgusted, and when I see the ads for the new film PATHFINDER bookended with the announcement that the film is 'Rated R for strong brutal violence throughout,' well, let's just say I'm left with the idea that we're peddling violence for the simple sake of violence. I miss seeing a violent film with some semblance of a motive, or at least an internal logic for the violence that is designed to tell a story. I just haven't seen that type of film for a long, long time, and I really wanted to see a good, throwback, violent-ass movie.

After seeing Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino's double feature GRINDHOUSE, I left theater satisfied, my thirst for violence quenched, and I didn't have a single guilty bone in my body for enjoying it. Infact this wasn't even a guilty pleasure, it was a pleasure through and through. It's an excellent film and a a brilliant example of genre filmmaking, and we're witnessing two of cinema's great talents on their way to reaching the height of their creative powers.

A bold statement for a film that pays loving tribute to some of the most ludicrous movies ever produced in cinematic history. Across America in the 70s and 80s, independent cinema halls would cram two, sometimes three of these Z-grade features into one program, a 'grind' of films that had no reason to exist other than to waste away an afternoon during summer break. These films, as ridiculous and over the top as they were, were pure escapism, and the fact that the filmmakers behind them actually 'went there' made them as bold statements of cinematic freedom as their more serious counterparts that were winning Oscars and Palme D'Ors. I remember my favourite grindhouse films were shown at the Cinderella City Drive-In Cinema in Denver, where we spent hot summer evenings watching implausible classics such as GRIZZLY, DAY OF THE ANIMALS, EL TOPO and GYMKATA. So when I heard that Rodriguez and Tarantino were making a tribute to the Grindhouse, I waited with baited breath.

And Hollywood's enfants terribles didn't disappoint. After a trailer for a Mexican renegade revenge drama MACHETE (with a scene-stealing cameo from Cheech Marin), we're greeted with a slinky, oversexed pole dance courtesy of Rose McGowan, who oozes sex bomb appeal in full Bettie Page/ Bardot pinup glory. At the end of the dance routine the dancer, known affectionately as Cherry, sheds a tear, saddened by the potential of her life wasted, her dreams of becoming a doctor washed away. The tear is an incomplete thought, and in classic grindhouse fashion, it's a good idea soon to be left to the wayside when the writer/ director finds a much more visceral subject to dig his teeth into, primarily flesh eating zombies. Welcome to PLANET TERROR.

Robert Rodriguez's contribution to GRINDHOUSE is a balls-to-the-walls splattercore zombie classic, a pitch-black headtrip that never relents in its desire to both shock and entertain the viewer. The film is as funny as it is grotesque, replete with exploding pustules, gory dismemberment, cheesy lines, and character archetypes so thinly devised that to call them transparent would be to call Paris Hilton vapid.

The plot is simple: a deadly biochemical gas has spilled into the atmosphere, turning ordinary people (in the backwater hick sense of ordinary) into flesh eating zombies. A small motley group of people are inexplicably immune to the gas, and it is up to them to ensure that the human race will survive. Rodriguez derives great pleasure from gazing over his victims' bodies (Black-Eyed Peas singer Fergie makes two notable contributions to the film, from the front and back) and destroying them in the most imaginative, sick ways. Every conception of logic is obliterated in glorious fashion, and the sinful pleasure is that as an audience, we are aware of the silliness, but it is the characters in the film who remain deadly serious about their predicament. Our enigmatic hero El Wray spews off heroic and purposeful one-liners from bad horror films as if its the only form of English he knows. Besides, he shouldn't waste time talking- he has a lot of ass to kick and tap. And lord knows he does, if only interrupted mid-coitus by a suspicious 'reel missing' slide placed by 'the management.'

PLANET TERROR is one of those films that makes you want to cringe, laugh, vomit, eat red meat, have wild sex and drive around like a maniac. It implores every basal element of our hedonistic desires (both male and female), and even manages to throw in a spot of forced patriotism (a name check of Osama Bin Laden is tossed in for good measure). It's what we call a plain ol' good time at the movies, but one that still requires our attention- there's no 'shutting off' one's brain when watching a movie like this because there's just so many parts, plots, subplots, and elements thrown at us. Rodriguez weaves it all together in a seamless, cognizant fashion, and in lesser hands the film would be rendered an incomprehensible mess.

PLANET TERROR is followed by a trio of trailers for never-made horror classics, including Rob Zombie's WEREWOLF WOMEN OF THE SS and Eli Roth's THANKSGIVING. Credit goes to Roth for creating the best of the trailers, a truly tasteless slice of 70s horror exploitation that is both nauseating and hilarious.

Coming off the adrenaline rush that was PLANET TERROR, Quentin Tarantino's half of the double feature, DEATH PROOF, does not start off with a bang but rather a mouthful of gab. In true Tarantino fashion, emphasis is placed upon witty dialogue between a host of characters that discuss everything from bar pickup etiquette to esoteric discussions of rarely-seen cinema. The dialogue is long winded and, while not uninteresting, manages to unfortunately kill off any thrills that were built up in the first half of the double feature.

It's only until halfway through the feature that Tarantino hits his stride. After four girls (including stunning headturner Sidney Poitier) roam about Austin, Texas talking, drinking, and talking some more, they come across a stranger who goes by the name Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russel in a superb performance, perhaps one of his best). The girls do not fear Stuntman Mike, rather they fear his car, an ominous black muscle machine with a skull painted across its hood. Common sense tells us to stay leery of such symbols, and Tarantino plays it like a fiddle in a gruesome turn of events.

Cut to the second half of the film, and Tarantino once again drowns the momentum in dialogue with a new quartet of women, including Rosario Dawson and Zoe Bell.

A quick word about Zoe Bell. She is a physical specimen unlike any other human being ever put on film, save for maybe Sebastien Foucan, co-founder of the sport Parkour, who showed unheralded dexterity in the opening sequence of 2006's CASINO ROYALE. But Zoe is as tough and skilled as Foucan, and maybe more so, demonstrated by her amazing stunt work in DEATH PROOF. Actually, amazing doesn't do her sequences justice- jaw dropping is perhaps more suitable. Bell is an action superstar in the making, and it almost seems Tarantino concieved the entire script for DEATH PROOF to showcase her talents. And who can blame him, she's simply incredible.

The second half of DEATH PROOF shows us that Quentin Tarantino rightfully belongs among the ranks of James Cameron, John Woo, Steven Spielberg, William Freidkin and Buster Keaton as one of the great directors of action, even though he's known more for his pop-culture dialogue and fractured storytelling techniques. DEATH PROOF contains one of the most memorable car chase sequences since THE FRENCH CONNECTION, and is lent all the more punch by the fact that it is done without the benefit of CGI. Tarantino's highway sequence has more impact than the multimillion dollar videogame spectacle that was THE MATRIX RELOADED, and it gleefully rewrites the cat-and-mouse dynamics of the chase with a delightful and unexpected twist that is unprecedented in classic chase films like DEATH VAN and the seminal Spielberg classic, DUEL.

There's enough blood spilled in GRINDHOUSE to make a vampire blush, and the violence is both excessive and over-the-top. But unlike '300' and PATHFINDER, it is completely justified, defined, and rationalized. I didn't leave GRINDHOUSE worried about what kind of world we live in, a world populated with nihilists and sociopaths who applaud in the theater when humans are brutally slaughtered in the vague name of "freedom" or some other rose-tinted myopic cause. Rather, I found GRINDHOUSE to be a celebration of what makes art enjoyable, of why we truly go to the movies. It's by and far one of the best movies of 2007, and earns my highest possible recommendation.

Note: GRINDHOUSE has not performed well at the box office, which has come as a shock to industry analysts. This despite excellent reviews, an aggressive marketing campaign and above everything else, Rose McGowan in hot pants with machine gun for a leg. GRINDHOUSE has managed to be beat out by cinematic tripe such as ARE WE DONE YET?, BLADES OF GLORY and MEET THE ROBINSONS. It remains as one of the true mysteries of the year, and one can only hope that strong word of mouth will bring the film the success it so richly deserves. I may just have to bring it up on IMDB.

THE PLAGUE DOGS

I have a soft spot for animals. At times I think they are more noble than men, as they live an existence that is very clear and basic. Their affections are true, they can sense despair, and they are, in the end, loyal. Domesticated animals have put an implicit level of trust in us to take care of them, as we've robbed them of their ability to survive in the wild. Understanding this, I am puzzled and terrified by those who abuse animals, those who exert an unfair balance of power upon creatures that place their faith in men.

If an abused animal ever had a voice, it was best heard in Martin Rosen's long forgotten animated classic, THE PLAGUE DOGS. Made in 1982 on a low budget, the film is an adaptation of Richard Adams' novel of the same title, and features the voice talents of John Hurt, Patrick Stewart, Nigel Hawethorn and Christopher Benjamin.

The story begins with an odd scene of a black Labrador Retriever paddling in a large water tank. The dog collapses with exhaustion, and sinks to the bottom of the tank. We hear the voices of men in the background, crunching scientific data and mentioning something about endurance tests. The dog is fished out of the tank with a long hook and resuscitated, and thrown back into his pen where there are hundreds of other dogs.

The dog is Rawf (voiced by Christopher Benjamin), and he mumbles to his neighbor, Snitter (John Hurt), a skittery terrier who has a bandage that covers the top of his scalp. Rawf talks of "Whitecoats", the men who subject the cruel and punishing tests to these animals, and in his exhaustion he talks of killing them.

And this is our welcome to the world of THE PLAGUE DOGS, one where noble creatures are subject to the mores and depravities of mankind. The tone of this film and story is established from the outset- this is a dark film, a grim story, and one where we know our two protagonists will be tested (both literally and figuratively) to their breaking points. This is not THE LION KING, and viewers beware: the film pulls no punches.

Snitter and Rawf are lab test animals, and they are imprisoned, along with monkeys, rats, and rabbits, in a secret laboratory located within a government sanctioned park in the Lake District in the UK. The two dogs, through sheer determination and delusion, manage to escape from the lab. Snitter, a dog who once had a master, seeks the memories of comfort and joy that he knew before a tragedy landed him in the testing facility. Rawf, a dog who knows little of the outside world, carries a chip upon his shoulder and a deathly fear of water. The dogs escape to the open, and realize that because of the efforts of men, they are ill equipped to live in the wild. They make the ultimate decision- they must revert to their wild nature and kill, or else they shall starve.

The transition is not easy, and the pair enlist the help of a clever fox, known simply as The Tod. With the assistance of The Tod the trio manage to kill several sheep. Unknown to the animals however is that these sheep belong to local farmers, who become distressed over the loss of several sheep. They organize a hunt to capture and kill the predators of their livelihood.

Meanwhile another crisis brews in the government, as they fear that the release of two dogs from the test facility would bring a wave of negative awareness to the treatment of the animals. The media investigation into the matter goes from base curiosity to panic, and the game of telephone result in the start of a nasty rumor: the dogs may carry fleas that carry the plague. The remainder of the film is a thrilling chase with two goals: the dogs to find their freedom, and the humans to cover up their crimes.

I won't divulge which goal sees fruition, but I can disclose that THE PLAGUE DOGS has one of the most emotional and moving endings I've ever seen, live or animated. In the end I was reaffirmed of the cruelty of man, but also the blessings of friendship and kindness, and the ebullience of freedom and independence. It is the culmination of a relationship that is based upon pure kindness and compassion, one of survival and fraternity. It damn near made me cry.

THE PLAGUE DOGS avoids the traps of other films that anthropomorphize animals. Films like BABE and the countless Disney films make us empathize with the animals as people, with human emotions and human desires. Rawf and Snitter do not share the desires of humans, rather they share the desires of animals- to be fed, to be loved, and to be free. They never stray from these desires, as it is their unalienable right. The dogs do not serve as a metaphor for human behaviour, rather they are the recipients of it, and their reactions seem authentic and true. Credit goes to the masterful voice work and the naturalistic animation. Rosen and his band of animators manage to capture small details that are true to dogs, and they create characters that are natural, effortless, and ultimately believable.

THE PLAGUE DOGS was little seen, probably because it was too intense for children, and contained far too much veracity for adults. It is an odd film with no real home, much like its protagonists. But it belongs in our lives. We see in this film good dogs that want- and need- a good home, and the love that they shall bestow in return is limitless. We see that when man tampers with nature, the ramifications can be cruel and unbecoming, and they expose us as monsters. If you previously were ambivalent about animal testing by cosmetics and commercial entities, then after seeing THE PLAGUE DOGS your mind will truly change. This is a shattering, poignant piece of work, and the most powerful work of animation that I'd seen since the masterpiece GRAVE OF THE FIREFLIES.

The film is not an easy watch, nor will children be able to comprehend the complexities of the emotions on display. But it is an important work nonetheless, and worthy of time and discussion. You may not be happy after watching THE PLAGUE DOGS, but you will feel more complete and enlightened for having experienced it. I can't say that about too many films.

Now if you excuse me, I'm going to go hug my cat.

BRING IT ON: ALL OR NOTHING

I just realized that in my film reviews, I'm not being fair. I'm only reviewing films that I think are good. So I need to invoke the spirit of Fox News and bring a "fair and balanced" approach to reviewing movies.

Which brings me to BRING IT ON: ALL OR NOTHING, the third part of the cheerleading magnum opus trilogy. I must admit, the original BRING IT ON is a guilty pleasure, a well executed piece of pop confection that always holds my attention. I really really enjoy it. The DVD sits next to my copy of THE DOUBLE LIFE OF VERONIQUE on my bookshelf.

Then there was a second installment which nobody saw, and we are blessed with the third (and presumably final) installment. In fairness to the target audience, I shall now divulge the plot, in character:

So, like, there's this totally hot chick named Brittany who's all like perfect and stuff, like she's dating the high school quarterback and is the captain of her cheerleading squad. She kinda is a total bitch to some of the girls on her squad, but like, she's dedicated to being the best, so she sees it more as like, what do they call it? Destructive criticism?

Anyway so her dad has to like to move for his job and whatever, and Brittany has to transfer to this totally ghetto Crenshaw High School which is full of like, gang bangers and black people. Brittany tries to, like, join the cheerleading squad but the black and hispanic kids are totally mean to her, and they like call her "white girl" and are totally bitchy with her. But Brittany gets on the squad, and she's introduced to this totally new way of dancing that's done in the hood- I think they call it Krumping. And so,like....


OK I have to stop here because if I vomit on my computer then it will short circuit.

This movie was on ABC Family last night and I have to say it was the most racist film I'd seen since BIRTH OF A NATION. I shit you not. Every possible racial stereotype was played out to just below blatant levels, and it made me wonder why the filmmakers just didn't go the extra step. Why didn't they just have the Puerto Rican girl pull a razorblade out from under her tongue and punctuate every one of her lines with "mi vida loca" and "pendejo" and have all of her friends dressed up like cholos? And why not just have the white kids call the black kids niggers- they said every other term, including "gang bangers," "hood rats" and ghetto kids." An Asian girl, who by the way knows martial arts, is even referred to as "Crouching Tiger." Just go ahead and call her a chink with her "Ancient Chinese Secret."

There's even a scene where lead "actress" Hayden Panettiere (god will someone please stop giving this insufferable girl work), having been blessed with the humility of minority life, steps up to her former white friends and declares "You better watch yourself, white girl!" A white girl berating another white girl for being a white girl? What the hell is going on here? Having denounced her white-devil heritage and embraced the simple life of humble working minorities, Hayden then turns to her Latino boy crush and Krumps with him.

And that's just the racism bit. The film lovingly embraces and focuses on jailbait buttcheeks, midriffs and boobs, and features more crotch shots than a Jenna Jameson double feature. The clearly underage nymphets don't just suggest sex, they even have it, with the bitchy antagonist declaring in front of her entire high school that she too had sex with the high school quarterback, and goddammit he loved every minute of it. We all know it happens, but on ABC Family? Whose parent company is Disney?

And then there's the running gag about eating disorders. A girl who is skinny is constantly told that she is fat, and once she passes out she's happy to eat a Snickers bar. She realizes, in a moment of intellectual clarity, that "I come from a family of fat asses." I'm not joking with you, that's what she really says.

The movie tries to moralize its racist and prejudiced undertones as "don't judge a book by its cover" but it fails miserably because it doesn't make an example of them, it makes jokes out of them. Bad jokes. Tasteless jokes. Mean-spirited jokes.

If CRASH was a dissection of race relations in America, then BRING IT ON:ALL OR NOTHING is the cancerous tumor of racism in America that continues to grow and fester. The scriptwriters use the ideology of "I was only joking" to cover up their core belief that "stereotypes exist for a reason," which is absolutely reprehensible. It's like if I were to go to a random black man on the street here in Chicago and tell him "You look like a cotton-pickin' nigger," and then follow that with a pat on the back and telling him " I'm just joking with ya." I might say I'm joking, but the fact of the matter is that I still fucking said the joke, and I probably wouldn't have said it if I didn't believe in it, even fractionally.

Don Imus is rightfully getting his ass kicked for saying racist remarks about the Rutgers women's basketball team, and he's trying to defend himself saying it was just a joke. You don't call someone a "nappy head ho" and later tell them you're just joking. And people around this country are defending him using the rhetoric "it's ok for a black man to call a black woman a ho, why can't a white man do it?" Because the black man who calls a black woman a ho or another black man a nigger is as much of an ingrate as a white man who does it. Don't judge assholes against other assholes, judge them against standards of universal decency.

This movie is an utter abomination, a primitive piece of hate posing as compassionate conservatism, and a disgrace. And the fact that its being marketed to kids is a crime punishable by solitary for life. Shame on the people who make this crap.

BLIND SHAFT

BLIND SHAFT
Written and Directed by Yang Li

"China is short of everything but people."

As sociopolitical systems, both capitalism and communism are great on paper. The communist ethic has pretty much proven a failure in modern application, as it doesn't account for the base principal of human greed. People want things, and they generally want more of that thing than their neighbor. And when they are rationed and denied any excess, they will find other means of getting said things. Corruption and black market economies ensue, and nations fall apart.

Capitalism on the other hand is still being tested, and its failures are rarely documented because, as the saying goes, it is the winners who write the history books. We rarely hear about the disparities of wealth created by the system of free enterprise. Capitalism as a system is still up in the air, but for the most part it has outlasted communism.

Enter the People's Republic of China, which is technically a Socialist Republic but is governed with the authoritarianism and oversight of a full communist state. While its constitution declares a freedom of press, the media in China is highly censored for what is called reasons of national security. Part of this censorship is that we are rarely if never given a peek into the lives of common Chinese citizens, the blue collar worker in the largest manufacturing base in the world.

BLIND SHAFT, the debut narrative feature directed by former documentary filmmaker Yang Li, gives us such a rare glimpse into Chinese life, and the small joys and overwhelming hardships that the people of China are facing as the country transitions into the singular economic powerhouse of the world.

Li's film focuses on China's private coal mining industry, which has been pushed into overdrive in response to China's incredible demand for energy as its infrastructure exponentially grows. The film follows the exploits of two men- presumably friends- who work in the most inhospitable of conditions for pay that is marginally better than those found in China's other sectors. Coal mining provides better compensation because of its high degree of risk, and also by the fact that the mines are located in some of the coldest, barren and desolate parts of Northern China. Nobody in their right mind would work there, but as work and resources are scarce, people are willing to risk their lives for a little extra cash.

The two men, Song Jinming and Tang Zhaomang, work hard but they have a much deeper ulterior motive, as they concoct a scam that involves the sabotage of the mine shafts and the untimely death (re:murder) of a coworker. The men collect upon the misfortunes of the victim, claiming hush money from the private owners based upon presumed heredity to the victims. Song and Tang have run this scam at several mines, moving from region to region, and leaving a dead body in each place. Tang blows his money on booze and whores, while Song sends a portion home to his family towards his child's education.

Enter Yuan Fengming, a sapling of a boy, barely sixteen, alone and looking for work. Yuan wants to earn good money to send home to pay for his sister's school fees, and he has left his family behind in search of work, work that is abundantly scarce in China. While in a market Tang finds Yuan and targets him as the next victim, manipulating the boy's innocence and convincing Yuan to pose as Song's nephew. The three then journey far north to a new coal mine, where they find employment.

The events that follow contribute to what is an excellent crime drama, one that is full of twists and turns, but is a far richer viewing experience because it does not overlook the basic human emotions that govern men. We are shown the divide between compassion and survival, and the mitigation between greed and basic provision. Song and Tang represent the system of old, where a man is denied excess, and therefore he must cheat, steal and even maim to achieve more. Yuan, the boy, represents the new hope of China, that hard work and determination can create economic stability and mobility. The ending of the film places these forces in full display, and as shocking as it is, the ending comes as highly appropriate and exceptionally well observed.

Yang Li made this film on a shoestring budget, employing the tools acquired from documentary filmmaking. Guerrilla shoots, johnny-on-the-spot filmmaking and the use of nonprofessional actors places the film in the esteemed realm of neorealist works by the Dardenne Brothers, Gillo Pontecorvo, and the Dogma filmmakers. The film has a raw beauty that both mimics and dissolves human life, stripping it down to its bare essentials and showing nothing but the bare wires of existence.

Not since Zhang Ke Jia's epic PLATFORM and the Dardenne Brothers' trilogy of films (ROSETTA, LE FILS and L'ENFANT) have I seen a more brutally honest portrayal of life- everyday life- in all its glory and squalor. BLIND SHAFT is one of those hidden gems that is an engaging yarn, expertly crafted and performed, and despite its underlying complexity, it reads effortlessly as a gripping crime drama. Credit goes to Yang Li for extracting the base truth from every scene, every moment, and every nuance. I can't wait to see his future work, and I eagerly await the opportunity to get a further glimpse into a world that hardly any of us are privy to.

And it is odd when you think about it. China occupies almost a fifth of our planet's population, and yet we know so very little of what goes on there. Films like BLIND SHAFT are as good as going there, if not the next best alternative, and what we ascertain that the global powerhouse that is the People's Republic of China is, like its neighbors to the West, prosperous at a cost. We see that capitalism and free enterprise, like communism, have yet to take the tenant of basic human greed into account. And one must wonder exactly how does one address the trappings of greed? Films such as this are a good place to start that important discussion. It's one we all desperately need to have.

BLIND SHAFT is available on DVD.

'300' AND THE WAR AGAINST TERROR (COMMENTARY)

There's been countless articles about how Zach Snyder's Spartan film '300' is pro-war and anti-Arab, and I'm not really going to go into that because it's been hacked to death (pun intended), to the point where even the President of Iran has his own theories about the film.

I have yet to see '300', but the Battle of Thermopylae has significance to the current war in Iraq and Afghanistan from a different perspective, one that is not even broached in the film. After the battle, wherein the Spartans were eventually defeated and Athens was brutally attacked and humiliated by Xerxes and the Persian Empire, it took almost a century for the Greeks to seek justice for the invasion.

Alexander the Great, son of Phillip of Macedonia, set out East to destroy the Persian Empire, to avenge the humiliation of Greece and the slaughter of so many Greek citizens. Alexander commanded a dedicated battalion of tough, rugged Macedonian soldiers across much of the civilized world, brutally hunting down the Persian King Darius, and later King Bessus. Alexander chased the Kings across Turkey, Egypt, Palestine, Israel, Iraq, Iran, and Afghanistan where Bessus was murdered and the Persian capital of Persepolis in Iran was burned to the ground.

This is where the story of Alexander becomes relevant to our conflict today, in a far more poignant manner than '300' could ever convey. Alexander, having avenged his Greek ancestors, pressed on into Afghanistan, Pakistan and India, driven to a manifest destiny given to him by holy Oracles from the god Zeus-Ammon. Zeus-Ammon was later said to be a divine figure of Alexander's own creation, and he alone was only to receive the divine instruction from God. Alexander's soldiers, exhausted from the 22,000 mile journey from Macedonia, started to question their leader. Their faith to him, while still strong, began to waver. Finally, after facing brutal battles in India, the soldiers stood up to Alexander, claiming they would fight no more. They had avenged the Greeks, and conquering India had no relevance to the original mission. Alexander no longer had the will and dedication of his men. He had no other choice but to call off the campaign and go home to Macedonia.

Jump millennia ahead and we have the events of September 11th. The leader behind the attacks was Osama Bin Laden, a Saudi blue-blood who attacked America for her support of Israel and the Saudi Royal Family. Thousands of Americans were killed, and the nation was humbled and humiliated. Our leader, President George W. Bush and the U.S. Congress rightfully waged a military campaign to bring Bin Laden and Al-Quaeda to justice. A battalion of US soldiers were sent to Afghanistan to hunt down and apprehend Bin Laden, to make him pay for the humiliation and massacre of the American people. Much like Alexander led the Macedonians into the heart of the Persian Empire to pay for the massacre of the Greeks by King Xerxes.

America was behind George Bush, and was determined to find Bin Laden and crush his supporters, the Taliban. Once the Taliban was nullified (and Bin Laden was on the run and reported to be in ill health), the President, his eyes full of power and listening to the words of his own faith and oracles, pursued a military campaign in Iraq. Everyone within the US establishment questioned the campaign, but under the original plan of justice for atrocities committed against America, they still stood by their leader. The confusion was this: our enemy and mission was in Afghanistan, and to press forward into Iraq had no true rationale. Much like Alexander who, after crushing Persepolis, pressed onwards to India when there was no real rationale to do so.

So into Iraq we go, our soldiers depleted and wary, and we fight a battle that only our leader knows why, and we follow him blindly, taking heavy casualties from a little understood opponent. Such was the case with Alexander, who understood little of the Indian Empire, who had never seen a military fight with war elephants. The Indians were a formidable opponent, and many Macedonians were killed.

And here is where the allegory (and this overtly simplistic account of history) ends, and the future is yet to be determined. If history repeats itself, which it has shown to do, then what can we expect in Iraq, and maybe even Iran? We have a President, George W. Bush, a born-again Christian who makes decisions according to his evangelical faith and his false idols, money and oil. Here is a man who has gone beyond the original scope of the mission, which was to bring the murderers from September 11th to justice. Bin Laden has become an afterthought, much like Bessos and Darius in Persia. Bush is persisting for reasons unknown to us, unknown to the soldiers. And like the Macedonia troops, who after the fall of Persepolis wished only to return to Macedonia to their families, our US soldiers are forced to stay in a campaign that many are no longer believing in, many are questioning the reasoning behind it.

If this precedent follows suit, then it is the US military who will stand up to the President and declare that they will follow him no more, that the plan has skewed and betrayed its original intent. We see rumblings of this, with US military generals voicing dissent and confessing to the ill vision of the commander. Whereas Alexander fought alongside with his men on the front line, President Bush keeps his men at distance, dictating orders from afar, detached from his men, taking orders from Oracles that no one knows or understands. I imagine it would be difficult to fight for a leader who has distanced himself from your struggles. He will not fight alongside with you, he has nothing at stake, you are going to die for a man you've never seen.

Greece and Macedonia were the greatest democracies of their time, and it was the Macedonian troops who exercised their democratic right by speaking out against their leader, by questioning his motives, by noncompliance. They were not only soldiers for Greece, they were also citizens of a democracy. Perhaps then the United States, which is currently the greatest democracy of its time, should follow suit, and the citizens of its democracy, of its volunteer army, should question and ultimately disband itself from the ill conceived and justified plans of its delusional leader.

One man cannot win a war. Alexander understood that and retreated, and prevented the further slaughter of ancient civilizations. But then again Alexander was a smart man, a pupil of Aristotle. We can only hope that George Bush can spell 'Aristotle.'