Archive for Owen Wilson

Nuts and Pumpkins

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 19, 2015 by dcairns

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Two new films from old favourites at Edinburgh.

Bruce MacDonald’s PONTYPOOL is still one of my favourite genre films from the past decade or so, so I was expecting good things from his new one, HELLIONS. Sadly, I found it really thin — monofilament thin, basically an extended dream sequence in which none of the horror — pregnant teen tormented by supernatural trick-or-treaters — registers because none of it feels real. Nor does it feel like a real dream or a real psychotic break. The film spends about ten minutes in reality setting up its characters, and the rest goes to show that good actors are helpless without strong writing to give them material to work with. Nice to see Robert Patrick, though, amusingly still dressed as a cop.

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Peter Bogdanovich’s SHE’S FUNNY THAT WAY references his previous movies WHAT’S UP DOC, NOISES OFF, and THEY ALL LAUGHED, or at least reminds me of them, and it features actors from throughout his long career, including Cybill Shepherd and Tatum O’Neal and Colleen Camp. More substantial roles are taken by Austin Pendleton and George Morfogen, who both appeared in WHAT’S UP DOC? The leads are Imogen Poots and Owen Wilson. But a hot newcomer named Jennifer Anniston walks off with the picture.

Developed under the title SQUIRRELS TO THE NUTS, the film centres on theatre director Wilson’s habit of quoting Charles Boyer’s “nuts to the squirrels/squirrels to the nuts” speech from Lubitsch’s CLUNY BROWN. Wilson quotes this speech to the escort girls whose services he employs, before gifting them with large sums to help them turn their lives around. So here’s a character who relies on escort girls for company (though he’s married) but likes to retire them so they can earn a living some better way. Odd, when you think about it.

My worry going in was that this was going to be autobiographical — Bogdanovich co-wrote it with his partner Louise Stratten. There are lines early on about printing the legend and rewriting history to make it more glamorous. So the fear was, is this going to be an attempt to rewrite the tragic fate of Dorothy Stratten? Is the world ready for STAR 80, the romcom?

(Playmate-turned actress Dorothy Stratten was romanced by Bogdanovich, starred in one of his movies, and was horribly murdered by her ex-husband. Bogdanovich then began a longterm relationship with her sister, Louise. The press accused him of having plastic surgery performed on Louise to make her more closely resemble the late Dorothy. A juicy VERTIGO tale of necrophilia — the truth appears to be that Louise needed dental work and Bogdanovich paid for it. Not actually that sinister.)

The urge to recreate a story with an intolerable ending and make it sweet is an understandable one, so the only question would be whether the film succeeds or if the result is just creepy. In fact, due to the charm of Poots and Wilson and the rest (Bogdanovich’s skill with actors remains truly impressive), the movie is sweet and likable and fun. The farce writing isn’t as tight, as logical or as surprising as it could be, and there are a few missteps — you can’t get a laugh by having a young lead punch spry but septuagenarian Pendleton — that wouldn’t even have been funny in 1972 — but there’s also a lot or warmth and joy. But the person who actually makes it funny is Anniston, playing the world’s worst shrink.

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Filling in for her respected mom (Joanna Lumley, whose only onscreen appearance is during her credit in the end titles), Anniston’s character is constitutionally unsuited to her job: foul-tempered, intolerant, judgemental and compulsively indiscreet, she blunders hilariously through her every scene. The stuff with her boyfriend isn’t so great — we’ve seen Madeline Kahn do the nagging shrew bit, and MK can never be surpassed, but the shrink schtick is persistently a scream. Keep an eye on this Anniston person, she’ll go far.

Defiantly old-fashioned, the movie looks back warmly at Hollywood history, of which Bogdanovich’s earlier films are now part. I don’t know if it can possibly be a success in the modern marketplace. But that isn’t my concern. I liked it. I like Bogdanovich for making it.

 

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Grain

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 10, 2015 by dcairns

Inherent-Vice

Pting. Vessooey. Wooch.

I never saw THE MASTER on the big screen. I missed the 70mm screenings in Dublin by days, and the big print never made it to Edinburgh. Apparently the London cinema that had first dibs on it had booked their best projectionist to handle it, but decided to save a little money by letting a less experienced employee take care of the press screening. He wrecked the print.

Bliffle. Wazzmap. Trintrintrittock.

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And I wasn’t completely sure I was going to bother with seeing INHERENT VICE in 35mm — Fiona, influenced by bad reviews, wasn’t interested, and a few friends reported disappointment and bafflement. I let the Cameo screenings slide by. But, on a whim, I popped along to Filmhouse 3 after work yesterday — and I really, really liked it. But it’s put me in quite a strange frame of mind. Vuvuvungle. Ilm. Fffffiip.

Another thing that had put me off slightly is that I had read the book, and found it extremely slight by Pynchon standard. Not just thin physically — The Crying of Lot 49 is also slender — but conceptually. It seemed filmable, but a director of Paul Thomas Anderson’s stature, should have selected a LESS filmable book and then grappled with its challenges/impossibilities.

I mean, we’d already had Altman’s THE LONG GOODBYE, which maybe didn’t overtly male Philip Marlowe a stoner, but by casting Elliott Gould at least implied as much. And then THE BIG LEBOWSKI made it literal. Pynchon’s “Doc” Sportello seemed doubly redundant, and more so as a movie character. Trahumph. Crrrrk.

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Since seeing the movie, I have a Tourettes-like urge to make silly noises, rather in the manner of Jerry Lewis in WHICH WAY TO THE FRONT? when he can’t handle rejection. Vooolf.

Burke Stodger, Japonica Fenway, Puck Beaverton, Sauncho Smilax… Wrrrab. Sporf. Maybe it’s the onslaught of Pynchonian names, even more overpowering on the screen, where an actor has to actually introduce himself as Dr. Threeply. Giddiness sets in. Watching lots of drugs being consumed doesn’t usually produce any vicarious effect in me except perhaps boredom, though the fast cutting in the brownies scene in I LOVE YOU, ALICE B TOKLAS did make me feel kind of sick. FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS, watched on a single glass of wine, did produce some kind of elation, and I kind of caught Brad Pitt’s mania from TWELVE MONKEYS. Preet. Prott. Hespelafigo.

Luckily there was nobody at the bus-stop after the film so I could Vrrroop and Pleck and Spraddlekoffup to my heart’s content.

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I will discipline myself. No more eruptions. Anderson’s film is flawed — I don’t mean that it’s impossible to follow — I actually understood most of it better than I understand THE BIG SLEEP, and I suspect a repeat viewing would clear up the remaining mysteries (which are not insignificant: what the hell was Bigfoot Bjornsen trying to achieve with the stolen drugs?). But there are plainly too many two-hander scenes in which Joaquin Phoenix (very funny) sits down with an informant and gets told some more plot. In one lengthy exchange over a canister of nitrous oxide (which literally induces laughter here, something I understand to be pharmacologically inaccurate), Anderson serves up the exposition in a pair of closeups against featureless white walls in a tiny cubicle, until I felt suffocated of all visual stimulation (kind of like the incomprehensibly long two profile shots outside the church in KILL BILL: death by understimulation). But those white walls showed up the grain nicely.

I wasn’t sure how nostalgic I felt about celluloid. When the censor’s certificate came on at the start, scratched to buggery and out of focus, I thought, “Oh, I haven’t been missing THIS.” But that dancing pointillist patina… a film that so successfully evokes its period would be impossible on digital, even with all the colour manipulation available. This experience is akin to time-travel.

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Oh yes, the movie’s flaws. It’s overlong and overshoots its climax by what feels like twenty minutes. But it has Owen Wilson, the heart of the movie. (The melancholy of the first scene, with the protean Katherine Waterston — one of a regiment of scratchy-voiced chicks rocking the natural look — sets up the undercurrent of sadness that Pynchon gets at in his prose sometimes but never in the actual SCENES of the novel, so it’s a brilliant piece of adaptation to me). It has Martin Short, channelling Burgess Meredith at his most Creep Factor 11, filtered through a layer of Phil Spector. Genius. I mean, NOBODY does Burgess Meredith. Short has a history of crystallizing the madness of whatever film he’s in, presenting it in a purer, more intoxicating form (MARS ATTACKS!). Josh Brolin, presenting the Tragical Comedy or the Comical Tragedy of Whiteman (to quote the Robert Crumb cartoon: “I must retain this rigid position or all is lost!”) Benicio Del Toro, underselling his quirkiness, which makes it even more striking. Some guys I don’t know so well are astounding: Jeannie Berlin, Michael Kenneth Williams, Jefferson Mays. And, in the “Where you been?” category, Eric Roberts and Martin Donovan.

This spaced-out Rockford Files won’t appeal to everybody. As I watched, I was wondering if my mum would like it. She enjoyed THE BIG LEBOWSKI… But this is more intense, peculiar, and dysfunctional. But it also has more of a purpose. Anderson, unlike Altman or the Coens, finds Sportello’s moral code admirable, I think. And the film’s elegiac quality, creeping up on you unexpectedly, is something far out of the register of its predecessors. Pynchon’s best bit in the book is the foreshadowing of the internet — it’s when the whole enterprise belatedly acquires some gravitas and atmosphere. Anderson deletes it entirely — but he captures the gravitas, and enhances the atmosphere.

Zzzzzzeeb! Hataracack.

 

Blocking and Punching

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , on June 17, 2010 by dcairns

Great fight scene in THE DARJEELING LIMITED! (starts at around 4:06)

Enjoyed this Wes Anderson, which I belatedly got around to after adoring FANTASTIC MR FOX, although I did have more trouble than usual with the fact that his characters are all rich layabouts with designer suitcases. Why should that bother me? It might be because the characters are out of their natural environment, which might be presumed to be the kind of urban world of THE ROYAL TENENBAUMS. India here is a colorful backdrop to the privileged cavortings centre-stage, and it seemed there might be more of dramatic import going on behind, say, Adrien Brody. But the film seems aware of this ridiculousness, and of the touristic nature of the characters’ approach to India, and of it’s own fairly shallow skimming of the subcontinental surface. And it’s laying a trap, because things do get deeper and darker.

Meanwhile, the fight, where the comedy comes not from slapstick blows exchanged, but from camera blocking — it’s all “jump up from below frame” and “step left out of frame” until it’s basically a choreographed puppet show using real protoplasm instead of foam rubber (not counting all the packing attached to Owen Wilson’s head).