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.

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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.