The Pirates of the Caribbean I, II, & III

Yo ho, yo ho, Johnny Depp as a pirate for me. I still remember the joyful shock of the first movie. I heard that they were making a movie about a ride at Disneyland and laughed for two days. Then it turned brutally hot so I went to see it in the theater, where it turned out the air conditioning was broken—and I didn't even notice, because the movie was so much fun. To say that these movies are better than they have any right to be is not saying much, since they have exactly no right to be any good at all. But there's Johnny, giving the performance of a lifetime, surrounded by an excellent supporting cast (hi Mackenzie Crook!), working from a witty script, wearing eyeliner that should have been nominated for an Oscar all by itself. I hear they are making part IV; I may not see it in the theater, but I'll gleefully add it to my DVD hoard.

The Happening

Seriously. What happened to M. Night Shamylan? If that is how one spells it? This movie is laughably bad. Bad at every level. Badly conceived. Badly plotted. Bad to the point of embarrassing badly written. How does he keep getting terrific actors to work with him?

Burn After Reading

How can it be that the Coens have been making movies as long as they have and never have made a bad one? The spouse and I laughed until we wept, though if you've seen it you'll know how much discomfort was involved. The only problem is, I really can't watch Brad Pitt any more. I like him, and he's very funny in the movie, and he gives it his all, but I just can't forget the public life long enough to believe the character. Weirdly, I am able to suspend all of that when I look at George Clooney. (George, my crush on you is over, but I actually feel closer to you now that I no longer carry a torch. I see myself as the Tilda Swinton in your life.)

Marie Antoinette (2006)

I owe Sofia Coppola an apology. I didn't see this in the theater, as, apparently, did almost no one else. That was a mistake; this is a terrific movie. Coppola called it "an emotional biography" or "a biography of feeling," or something. She was responding to questions about its deliberate anachronisms, but the best answer (as she no doubt knew) is simply the movie itself, which works wonderfully. It's beautiful to look at, with the costumes and the countryside and the Versailles, and it is thoughtful too, making one empathize with its titular child bride thrust into a life of immense privilege as well as restriction, and pilloried for it. This is a subject one imagines Coppola knows a thing or two about. For example, people like me saying: "she's young and attractive and wealthy and famous and I simply can't stand it if she's really talented too so I'm not seeing her movie." My loss.

The Number 23 (2007)

I hate to pollute The Enthusiast with disses, so let's just say, the reviewers were right about this one. My favorite review can be found here.

Fight Club (1999)

How do I feel about this movie? I love it. Just to prove I'm not dumb I'll note right now that the movie's premise is absurd: it's about a bunch of guys so totally anti-corporate and primal that they want to...look like Brad Pitt! And impress chicks with how good they are in bed! How very punk rock. If you let go of that, though, there is a lot of fun to be had and mostly it's because Brad Pitt never, ever, looked cooler. Right there at the center of a movie all about rejecting consumerism and destroying its major outposts is Pitt, whose major effect on everyone I know who saw the movie was to make them want to hit the gym and go shopping. Whoever did his costumes should have gotten an award. Ed Norton is also, as always, I'm coming to think, a joy to watch. But the real thing is David Fincher, a man with all kinds of visual ideas (and an abiding love of filth and rot) and the smarts to use them well and understand actors at the same time. I'm the only person I know who saw, and liked, "The Game," so deep was my Fincher loyalty at one point. Seeing this movie again reminds me why.

Incidentally, it's also fun to see it knowing the plot twist in advance. I wish I could report that I saw that twist coming a mile away the first time around, but I didn't at all. I never do. I think the only plot twist I ever predicted was in that M. Night Shamalyan movie about the people in the forest surrounded by monsters.

The Matrix Reloaded (2003)

Anyone who knew me at a certain point in my life will remember my bug-eyed, raving, fanatical devotion to "The Matirx." This is a movie I saw five times in the theater; it is the reason I first got a DVD player. I have no idea how many times I've actually seen it. It's hard once something really new has become old to remember what it was like before. Now all movies of a certian kind look a lot like "The Matrix," but at the time nothing did. I saw it blind, on a whim, having heard nothing about it—and it just transported me. My fanaticism had everything to do with my psychological, shall we say, idiosyncrasies at the time, and has since ebbed, but I'd still happily watch it any time. "The Matrix Reloaded" is a whole other kettle of fish. What do we learn in this sequel? Well, for one thing, you can multiply the villain all you want, but when your hero is an un-killable superman fight scenes tend to lose their suspense. Also we learn that Zion is populated entirely by 18 to 24 year-olds and looks, on a Friday night, a lot like one of those early-90's Calvin Klein orgy ads. Principally, however, we learn that Keanu looks good in a skirt. This is not an incidental point, because it relates to my overwhelming impression seeing it this time around, to wit: the Wachowskis are fond enough of women, and have no objection at all to using them, but they are heart-and-soul homoeroticists. Nothing makes them happier than pushing around blank-faced, doe-eyed Keanu. Remember the bug scene from "The Matrix?" You found it hot, right? So did they, and they find all kinds of ways large and small to recapture the magic. Look for Keanu's long, grommet-studded spine lying in bed, Monica Bellucci bullying him into a lingering kiss, the Oracle fondly teasing him for being, as she first put it, "cute...not too bright, though."

Seeing TMR on high-def also teaches me one more thing: CGI looks really cruddy on high-def. Watching the scene where Keanu and multi-Hugo go at it is like watching a movie be regularly intercut with its own video game.

V for Vendetta (2005)

This movie has a lot going for it, and should have been fun. I mean, Hugo Weaving for heaven's sake! The Wachowski brothers! But Weaving is trapped behind an immobile mask for the whole movie, and the script is a monument to moral incoherence. This is a movie that fancies itself a timely allegory for the fight against government tyranny and groupthink, focusing in particular on the inevitable slide into abduction and torture common to all paranoid, totalitarian systems. And yet torture is also the means by which the hero supposedly expresses his love and frees the soul of his beloved! (Naturally, the heroine is tortured; for some reason filmmakers persistently equate violence against women with metaphor. See "Boxing Helena" for evidence that this is not only a male-director problem.) It's doubly discouraging to watch a movie whose principles one largely agrees with fall into such a ridiculous mess. Look for a nice glimpse of Sinead Cusack, however, as well as a good bit from Steven Fry, though neither of them can escape the moronities of their respective characters.

Inside Man (2006)

Sometimes On Demand turns up trumps. I vaguely remember when this Denzel Washington/Jodie Foster/Clive Owen thriller came out, but never seriously considered seeing it. What I forgot was that I should always see a Spike Lee movie if I can. The thing that's so great about Lee is that he clearly loves making movies. He is apparently only worried that each one will be his last; at least, that's how I explain the exuberance with which he stuffs them full of everything he can think of. In this case he takes what would, in any other hands, have been a slick, sort of interesting heist picture, and turns it into a wild tapestry. Lee's faults are his virtues. Sure, lots of stuff doesn't really cohere or go anywhere, but I don't begrudge a director a little messiness in the service of a fascination with people. The cop describing being shot by a twelve year old? Has nothing to do with the plot, illuminates a character with no particular relevance to the story, and meanders into a little dance about who is allowed to use what words in talking about race—and thank goodness! Lee has time for that cop and his story and his context and I couldn't be happier about it. At the end of the movie he puts together a montage of "The Players" which includes not only the leads but every last person the movie showed us; it's just marvelous. Also, Clive Owen is totally dreamy.

TV Junkie (2006)

Friends, this is the end of my addiction film series. This documentary is put together from thousands of hours of video footage shot by a guy whose name I am struggling to forget. He documented more or less his entire life, including a career on TV, marriage, two children, and a crack addiction. Does one of those elements sound like a bad idea? It's hard to overstate how bad an idea it was. I was doing ok until, toward the end, we watch a fight (not the first, to say the least) between him and his wife, carried out in front of their weeping three-year-old, who is asking questions like, "why did you hit mommy, daddy?" To which the reply, "don't worry about it, she's probably gonna shoot me now." If you like pain you're going to love the child's eyes as he cries, "Why? I don't want to!" I finally got smart enough to fast-forward. The thing is, this is a man who really, truly, loves his family, which makes not the smallest difference as he puts them through hell. He ends up clean, lecturing high school students on the dangers of addiction...as if that too, is likely to make even the smallest difference.

Bernard and Doris

A request has been made for a non-knitting Enthusiast post (a request from a non-knitter, obviously; the guild of the pointy sticks can never, ever have enough knitting posts). And so grateful am I to have any readers at all, let alone ones with desires in re the blog, that I am cheerfully obliging! Here's what On Demand has brought to my life lately:

"The Interpreter": Sean Penn and Nicole Kidman in a draggy and predictable thriller.
"God Said Ha!": Early nineties Julia Sweeney one-woman-show about her brother dying of cancer right after her own divorce and diagnosis of cancer. Surprisingly funny!
"Postcards from the Edge": Meryl Streep playing Carrie Fisher post-rehab. Weird. Not terrible.
"28 Days": Sandra Bullock in rehab. Shut up! I love this movie.
"Bernard and Doris": Absolutley wonderful movie about how attractive money is, and how two addicts can be equally destructive and supportive of one another. Love the yummy Ralph Fiennes, even if we have learned he's a little...free...with the ladies.

All these rehab stories led to Netflixing HBO's four-disc special on addiction, in all of its aspects. I recommend it, though it is tough to watch people struggle so desperately and fail so often.

OK, Naunihal?

An Apology to Michael Mann

Honesty compels me to admit that after trashing Miami Vice I couldn't get it out of my head and watched part of it again.

Diary of a Mad Black Woman & No Country for Old Men

How many people can say they saw those two on the same day? As for DMBW, what struck me most was that the nature of the heroine's dilemma (being left destitute when her wealthy husband walks out on her) doesn't have much to do with race. Good thing she immediately meets a handsome, loving, honest welder who teaches her to love again. The most racially charged part, I thought, was the movie's treatment of the church, which is integral to the lives and choices of all the main characters. I'd be surprised to see a movie with a white cast have religion play such a prominent role and yet not mark the movie as Christian in all of its marketing. Also, Madea was funny, particularly in the scene where she calculates what the heroine is owed for eighteen years of a difficult marriage. In re: NCOM—well, what do you think someone like me thought of it? I loved it with all the fervor of someone learning all over again what makes the Coen brothers the Coen brothers.

Miami Vice

An On Demand selection. A movie that boldly asks what "Miami Vice" would have been like sucked of every drop of camp and given license to curse. In a daring artistic choice, anticipating Mel Gibson's decision to film a movie in ancient Aramaic, the screenwriter chose to script the whole thing in contemporary Testoteronic. This language relies heavily on the near-grunt and springs to life mainly when there is technology to be discussed or threats to be issued while staring murderously into the eyes of one's enemies. It has no words for "humor" or "irony." Oops! Yes it does: "gay." The women of Miami speak it fluently, though their role in the movie is mostly limited to being put in grave peril so their boyfriends can show emotion by turning away and clutching their guns a little tighter. Rumor has it that Jaime Foxx and Colin Farrell weren't exactly acting when it came to the macho posturing, and it's clear that their role-preparation consisted mainly of staring lovingly at themselves in weight-room mirrors as their pecs swelled to lactative proportions.

Marc Jacobs

What with one thing and two others I completely forgot to check out the Marc Jacobs ready-to-wear show for Fall 2008. Can you even believe? And I might not have remembered at all, but for the documentary about him and his work at Louis Vuitton I caught yesterday on our cable's On Demand. First: On Demand. My new favorite thing in the world. A seemingly random selection of movies, hundreds of them, ranging from dreck to delight, changed regularly, all free. I tell you, it's enough to make a girl quit her job. The documentary, called "Marc Jacobs and Louis Vuitton," was made for French TV by a skeleton crew of three guys, and is totally wonderful. The narration is pithy and witty and informative, and watching the creative head of a financial empire as vast as MJ's currently is is totally fascinating. Don't get me wrong: I'd have to be born over and born different to stop falling for the dream of glamor and sophistication that drives fashion and makes me and lots of other people pay crazy amounts for a shot at a piece of it. But when I watch or read about the business angle of it all I am completely absorbed in a different and equally pleasurable way. In terms of charisma Marc himself is no Isaac Mizrahi (see "Unzipped"), but nor is it easy to look away from him as he chain-smokes his way to, as the narration tells us, creating goods that result in an "average spend" of $3000 per customer in LV stores worldwide.

PS—As for the photo at left: the whole collection is still simmering in my mind, and I don't know how I feel about the clothes, but lordy, check out those shoes!

Michael Clayton

I imagine the genesis of the movie was something like this: an enormously talented group of movie people are given the following challenge. Take only the most minimal set of convetional thriller plot devices, strung together so as to result in a just-tenable level of plausibility, and then *make the heck out of that movie.* Go nuts—use wonderful actors at their absolute best, give it a terrific script, make it gorgeous to look at, etc. Voila! "Michael Clayton." Clooney is all that he is said to be in the title performance. How good is he? I watched a two-hour movie in which he appears in nearly every frame, and I never once thought about how dreamy he is. I! never thought about George Clooney's dreaminess! He's great. So is everyone else, particularly Tilda Swinton in a tense perfomance that shows without telling the unique pressures of being female in a corporate environment--clothes, hair, and makeup play an understated but vital and dual role as both armor and Achilles heel.

One more thing I will say is this: if you have ever wondered just how efficiently and cleanly you could be killed in your own home, this movie will show you. Most impressive.

Balls of Fury

At last! And really, it was very funny. It was made by Ben Garant and Thomas Lennon of "Reno 911," and had a lot of that show's virtues: performers who know what they're doing, genuine wit in the writing, and a weird way of actually making their idiotic characters sympathetic. Thomas Lennon is a white-hot bolt of energy as the deranged East German ping-ponger who challenges our hero, former child champion Randy Daytona. The latter is played by Dan Fogler, whom I would normally call the poor man's Jack Black, except that he's actually fantastic and, the IMDB informs me, a Tony award-winner. Christopher Walken swans about in kimonos and Gary Oldman's "Dracula" hair without so much as a wink at his ridiculous get-up, dropping his lines in that weirdly langorous New Yawk honk of his. I loved him. I liked the whole thing, but this much I know is true: no one in the world liked this movie better than my spouse. Did he chortle at every testicle-injury joke? Yes he did. It is a fact that on the ride home he started to worry that the movie wasn't well-enough publicized, and to wonder how he might launch a word-of-mouth campaign.

Once

Oh man. You know how my life could be one hundred percent more soulful? If I were fifteen years younger, and seriously strapped for cash, and a musician, and dressed always in warm layers. Maybe if I smoked, too, but probably hanging out with people who smoke a lot would do just as well. That's what I gather, anyway, from "Once," a lovely, lovely, romantic movie that manages to be both dreamy and realistic at the same time. We saw it last night (*again* the spouse's choice; I clearly need to leave movie selection up to him from now on) and it just broke my heart. It was a salutary corrective to the high-buff sheen of last week's "Nanny Diaries." I stand by what I said about melting at the sight of expensive clothes, but good heavens--"Once" is a pretty powerful reminder of how frighteningly (and exhileratingly) unadorned and unpolished love and attraction are.

The Nanny Diaries

I avoided this book assiduously when it came out, though I couldn't say exactly why; no doubt some deep, unexamined prejudice against chicklit. No, actually, probably a deep, unexamined envy of young twenty-somethings writing quick novels and getting filthy rich. In any case, no reason that did me any credit. But last night my spouse and I saw the movie (at my spouse's urging! I was agitating for "Balls of Fury") and I really, really liked it. Amidst all the hoopla over how sexy Scarlett Johansson is (and no argument from me on that) I forget how much I like her as an actress. And Laura Linney is terrific in a part that could easily have been a sort of live-action Cruella de Ville. The movie was directed by the team that did "American Splendor" so it is very stylishly and beautifully put together; also, Paul Giamatti is great as the unbelievably creepy asshole father. If I am honest, however, I must say that for me one of the movie's greatest pleasures was the clothes. Oh my god the clothes! I wanted, desperately, to own every dress Johansson or Linney put on--I nearly fainted at the lipstick red Dior Linney wears for her anniversary. It's true that the clothes are also the nexus of the movie's irritating corporate synergy; ScarJo the character notes that Linney is wearing Louis Vuitton shoes, while ScarJo the real person smiles out of every magazine on the stands as the new face of...Louis Vuitton. And who is that making a cameo as a TriBeCa fashionista? Why, it's Georgina Chapman, extremely hot designer and, totally coincidentally, girlfriend of Harvey Weinstein whose company backs Chapman and produced the movie. And on and on. Still though, I forgave all at the sight of Alicia Keys' Duro Olowu dress, or the bejewelled cream Prada (I think) Linney wears to a party. And the kid is very cute.

A side note: why was I able to see a movie about rich women neglecting their children? Because my own Precious was at home, being watched by someone paid to take her to gymnastics, feed her dinner, and put her to bed. I left the theater feeling like the worst. mom. in the world.