Saturday, December 31, 2005

No pun this time. Not really that kind of a movie.

Clickety-click.

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

"I miss Ferris Matthew. Broadway Matthew ... I find him cold."

Clickety-click.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Review: Brokeback Mountain

Sometimes, the hardest thing to do with a film is avoid labeling it. Granted, there are occasions when simple phrases can get an accurate handle on a film. For example, calling King Kong a movie about a giant ape is about as on-point as you can get, and because of the film's self-proclaimed spectacle being its largest personality trait, such pigeon-holing doesn't really take away from the movie. But most movies are harder to describe so simply, especially if the filmmaker's sights are set more on genuine emotions, whether humor, pain, death, or love. This is the frustration I face when I tell someone that one of my favorite films is Rushmore. This admission is usually met with glazed stares, and things only worsen when they invariably ask "What's it about?" and I find myself unable to answer. The phrase "coming of age" has become so overused it's lost whatever meaning it may have originally held; I could tell them it's a comedy, and that usually perks their ears up, though when I amend the phrase to "smart comedy," things usually head back south; I could say it's about love, and growing up, and death, and how, toward the end of the film, Herman Blume's raised fist at the close of the play "Heaven and Hell" manages to be funnier and more moving every time; I think of a thousand things to tell them, none of which would help, so I usually just tell them to rent it, knowing they won't, and they know I know, and I know they know I know, so then we just go back to talking about fantasy sports or something. The film is too strong, too complex, just too much of anything for me to be able to spit out a log line. This is the case with most great films, and it's the case with Brokeback Mountain, a strong, sad, moving story of doomed love that most people won't see because it's been stuck with a label for the years it spent languishing in development hell: "the gay cowboy movie." And yes, that's part of it, but if that's all you want to hear about a movie, you'd do well to change that. Director Ang Lee has done more than helm the latest critical darling and movie of the moment (there's one every year). Working from a screenplay by Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana, based on a short story by Annie Proulx, Lee has crafted a powerful tale about love and loss, and about how longing can pull two people apart as much as it unites them.

Ennis Del Mar (Heath Ledger) and Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal) meet in Wyoming in 1963, working the summer as hired hands for rancher Joe Aguirre (Randy Quaid). They spend their days herding sheep and nights keeping an eye on the flock up on Brokeback Mountain, and it's this part of the story that defines the tone and heart of the film. Jack is loud and arrogant, all cocksure attitude and rodeo grins, while Ennis is much quieter, mumbling most of his words through an often clenched jaw. One night around the campfire, full of whiskey, they share Jack's tent, and wind up having sex in what could be the most hyped and anticipated love scene in years. As I watched the film, there was a palpable sense of anticipation in the theater throughout the beginning scenes, like we were all wading through the exposition to get to the inevitable sex. And while this is understandable, such singular focus distracts from the surrounding beauty of the film and the fact that the scene itself, though somewhat graphic, is in no way explicit. The next morning, sobered up and back to his restrained self, Ennis tells Jack, "This is a one-shot thing we got here. ... I ain't queer." Jack responds, "Me neither." They're forced to make public denials to each other as social safeguard, but the subtext is clear. And like that, their love is recognized but left unnamed. In fact, there are no more uses in the film of any terms for sexual orientation or Jack and Ennis' affair; Lee is smart enough to know that it simply is what it is, and that any attempts to strictly define it would rob it of its weight.

The summer ends, and Jack and Ennis part ways, and the rest of the film tracks their lives over the next 15 years. Ennis stays in small-town Wyoming and marries his girl back home, Alma (Michelle Williams), while Jack winds up doing some rodeo down in Texas and marrying barrel-rider Lureen Newsome (Anne Hathaway), heir to a farm-machinery empire. The widening gap in their financial situations parallels the changes in their own lives; when Jack and Ennis reunite after four years for another week up at Brokeback, Jack is working for Lureen's father and pulling in serious money while Ennis and Alma are living in a small apartment above the laundromat. But their reunion is a powerful one, and they agree to get away to Brokeback several times a year.

Although the film takes place in 1960s and '70s America, it almost seems to exist in its own world and time. No mention is made of presidents, Vietnam, or any of the major historical highlights from the era that could trap the film. Up on Brokeback, working as ranchers, the story could be five years old, or a hundred. Cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto does a wonderful job at capturing the beauty of the mountains, and the cowboys' lifestyle is equally complemented by Gustavo Santaolalla's gorgeous score built around acoustic guitars and pedal steel. This is, after all, a Western, and it looks and sounds the part.

Ledger and Gyllenhaal turn in fantastic performances in a real graduation from their previous work. Gyllenhaal's Jack is eager and loyal, more sure of what he has with Ennis. Ledger here is quiet and soft-spoken, but far from stupid; Ennis is surprisingly poetic, and the moments when he comes out of his shell and Jack stops putting on a front, and when they're really together, are heartbreaking. Williams and Hathaway are also better in their supporting roles than expected, each taking giant leaps here away from the kiddie images cultivated in their earlier hits (teen soap "Dawson's Creek" for Williams and The Princess Diaries for Hathaway). Alma is a strong but subdued housewife, and Lureen a free spirit that seems to love the idea of Jack more than the actual person.

Much has been made of the film in the press, and though Lee and others are quick to point out that the film took years to get off the ground, it's no doubt enjoying a success now that it couldn't have imagined had it been released seven years ago, when Gyllenhaal was first sent the script. Some in the press feel the need to herald the film while needlessly playing up a largely embellished split between the coasts and the plains; but others are taking an even more dangerous tactic by turning the film into the very stereotype it avoids, and this is offensive. Brokeback Mountain is a superbly crafted film and a genuinely moving love story, but calling it a "gay love story" only assigns it a needless label that will damage everyone's perception of the film. No one refers to Pretty Woman as a "straight love story"; why the double standard?

As the story builds, Jack and Ennis turn into men leading different lives. Ennis watched his daughters grow up and bounces between low-paying ranching jobs, while Jack raises a family and becomes a successful salesman for Lureen's father. They meet at Brokeback when they can, and the mountain begins to transform into this mythic thing inside and between them, both a symbol of their relationship and the memory of an idyllic past growing fainter by the day. Their story is the same as everyone's: When we're lucky enough to figure out what we want, we can almost never hang on to it.

Monday, December 19, 2005

Ten Movies You Should See, Pt. 7: Directors Edition

It's that time again; time for me to drop another 10 titles on the unsuspecting public, and by "public" I mean the handful of people who come across this site and manage to stick around long enough to read something and maybe leave an anonymous insult, which are my most favorite. Anyway, these aren't completely obscure films, but they're also not (I hope) totally predictable ones. They're just movies, most by some big-name directors, that I feel have gone more unnoticed by people my age than is healthy.

[See the first six lists here.]

1. Tape (2001)
2. Coming Home (1978)
3. Being There (1979)
4. The Chorus (2004) (In French with subtitles. Adjust.)
5. Badlands (1973)
6. Days of Heaven (1978)
7. Wild at Heart (1990)
8. Five Easy Pieces (1970)
9. Mean Streets (1973)
10. Manhattan (1979)

An Open Letter To Every Man In My Office Who Won't Stop Talking About Fantasy Sports

Dear sirs,

Shut up.

I guess I should elaborate on that, or at least give you some insight into my reasoning. But while I do that, while you read this, you should take this opportunity to shut the hell up about your fantasy team. I don't care. Your wife doesn't care. If you have a girlfriend, she will leave you if you keep talking about this. If you don't have a girlfriend, rattling off stats for "your guys" won't help you get one any faster than if you were one of those guys who camped out for an Xbox 360.

And that's another thing: You say things like "my team," "I scored," "We did well over the weekend," etc. And you are in no way connected to any professional athlete. At all. At. All. You hear me? Not at all. It's one thing for parents to vicariously live through their children's successes, as in "My boy did well" or "My girl just made starter," and it's ultimately acceptable, though not encouraged, for them to use the plural possessive and say things like "Our team did great" or whatever. But you, gentlemen, don't do anything for the players you say are "yours." Their performance in any given game is not dependent on your watching the game, or having money riding on it, or getting sucked up in a fantasy draft. They do it without you every time. Every. Time. When you say things like "We need another win to clinch a playoff berth," you don't sound smart or informed or like you're an insider; you just sound like a tool.

Which brings me to another point: the name itself, "fantasy sports." Let that word roll around your Pabst-addled minds for a minute. Fantasy. Fantasy. Not real. In no way connected to reality. Fantasy. Say it as many times as you need to, but be sure you understand it. Sure, I realize it takes different strokes and all that, and I get how you feel excited when someone you "picked up" in a "draft" does well; I get how you like to feel involved with something bigger than yourself; I get how you like to feel somehow connected to high-performance athletics despite the inability of most fantasy sports nuts to do anything remotely close to the displays of physical prowess on the field we take for granted; well, I don't get all that exactly, but I kind of see where you're coming from. It's your passion, and that's fine. Numbers, games, stats, injury reports, bragging rights, inane legacies from father to son; it's all in your blood, and that's okay. I myself prefer a good story, well-told, something that will stick with me long after you've stopped breathlessly recapping the fourth game of the 1996 ALCS, for example. But hey, that's my hang-up, being able to emotionally connect to art and music and film. We've all got our crosses to bear. And I encourage you to enjoy yours.

But I don't want to hear about it all the time, okay? Seriously. Somewhere, deep down, you have to understand that I don't care, that most people don't; that you're only participating in the random collection of facts and performance charts, not the real game; that there are bigger, better things out there. I implore you to listen to that tiny voice that occasionally pipes up within you and tells you to take things down a notch when you're babbling to anyone within earshot about how "your boys" did over the weekend. It's a big world, fellas, and we've all got to get along.

Until then, though, shut up.

Sincerely,

Daniel Carlson

Sunday, December 18, 2005

"This is the most important thing I'll ever do. I have to do it well."

johnspencer

"Leo's made out of leather. His face has a map of the world on it. Leo comes back."

Thursday, December 15, 2005

There are dozens of monkey-related jokes I could use here, but they're all pretty stupid, and frankly, I'd hate myself more than normal. So just read the thing.

Clickety-click, folks.

[Update: Before the film, I saw the teaser for Miami Vice, starring Jamie Foxx and Colin Farrell. I'm still searching for superlatives in a futile attempt to describe the mix of fear, horror, curiousity, regret, and depression that moved through me like a wave of nausea, so while I try and pin down my feelings, feel free to take a gander at the tease, for now only available at the Bacardi site. It's worth navigating the sad, somehow lonely website ("The Bacardi girls are loaded!" Congrats, Bacardi P.R., you've mastered the single entendre.) in order to see this. Trust me.]

[2nd Update: King Kong just came out, and I'm already sick of everyone claiming that the movie will make "Titanic money." I pretty much hate Titanic, but it's the undisputed box office champ; it's domestic take stands at a little more than $600 million, and it's international box office came to rest at an unholy $1.23 billion. Yes, that's right; billion. The Return of the King, the final film in Jackson's The Lord of the Rings trilogy, is the #2 worldwide total champ, and it's still a solid $700 million behind James Cameron's godawful romance.

Is it possible for the record to be broken? Sure. But it's way, way, way, way too early to make any claims that King Kong will be the one to do so.]

Monday, December 12, 2005

Okay. So, this is another one of those stories that, though theoretically could happen anywhere, could actually only happen in Texas. This has to be the opening scene to an actual porno somewhere, something with a title like No, Seriously, It's a Mile-High Club or The Peanuts Are Free, As Is the Inconsequential Sex.

Anyway, on a flight bound for San Antonio, two inebriated and belligerent Playboy Playmates, apparently mistaking the coash-class aisle for a water fountain on the soundstage of their latest softcore DVD, began fighting with each other and other passengers. Officers from San Antonio's Finest were waiting to arrest them when the plane landed, and this is pretty much where the wheels come off the reality wagon and the story, for a brief moment, takes on the sheer implausibility of a Forum letter: In order to try and dissuade the officers from arresting them, the esteem-challenged women made sexual advances on the policemen. Reached for comment, the officers said that the arrest ranked among the "most awesome" experiences they've had on the force, not including the time their chief took everyone to Schlitterbahn.

According to the women's Web sites, they both have their eyes on actual acting careers, or something. One of the women, Carrie Minter, said she takes acting classes in Sherman Oaks, which pretty much guarantees I'll be keeping an eye out for her next time I make an In-N-Out run. Carrie says she's a "big dreamer." I guess this proves it. Keep chasing those stars, girls.

Saturday, December 10, 2005

Boring. Uninvolving. Costumes over character.

Clickety-click.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

Irony, Thy Name Is Hollywood

Item the First:

An upcoming IFC documentary about the history of the MPAA rating system has, you guessed it, been classified NC-17 by the MPAA rating system.

Item the Second:

Apparently unaware that larger, slightly more civilized, never-been-penal-colony continents like North America are fast and free traders in the realm of satire, an Australian paper owned by Rupert Murdoch has taken an item from the Defamer and reported it as fact.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Rejected Adult Film Titles

Not Really Nurses, Vol. 2

Tuition Went Up and I Don't Have Any Scholarships and This Seemed Like A Good Way to Make Money, Though I Should Probably Get Tested Soon, Part 7

The Overenthusiastic Moaning Masks a Spiritual Void, Vol. VIII

Unusual Ways to Finance a Home Loan, Ch. 2

The Agent Just Said Modeling, He Never Mentioned This

That Looks Just Like My Old Apartment, Vol. 9

Former Strippers With Esteem Issues

Another Step in the Cycle of Parental Neglect, Part 3

Friday, December 02, 2005

Black gold. Texas tea.

Clickety-click.