Aaron

I’m normally distrusting of coming of age films, as they almost universally miss the mark on conveying the inner changes of lives in progress.  Add Robin Williams playing a retarded man to a project written and directed by a former television actor and my cynic meter almost redlines.  Thankfully David Duchovny pulls it off and lets me leave the theater with a pleasant smile on my face.

House of D
3 & 1/2 Stars

I’m normally distrusting of coming of age films, as they almost universally miss the mark on conveying the inner changes of lives in progress.  Add Robin Williams playing a retarded man to a project written and directed by a former television actor and my cynic meter almost redlines.  Thankfully David Duchovny pulls it off and lets me leave the theater with a pleasant smile on my face.

House of D

According to the world of cinema, our lives are defined by a single event which serves both as a landmark and an easy explanation for the rest of our lives.  In the real world however, our lives are redefined each and every day with every moment and action helping us become more and more ourselves.  There are powerful moments with long-lasting effects, but without a director’s hand or screenwriter’s plot, each life is a compilation of endless series of moments.  But that would make for some seriously long-ass movies, wouldn’t it?  So we’ll have to settle for the snapshots of life provided by our current technology, I suppose.

Effectively casting off the remaining shreds of his iconic X-Files career, David Duchovny makes his writing and directing debut with House of D, a not-really-autobiographical coming of age film set in the early 70’s Greenwich Village.  Duchovny plays Tommy, an artist living in Paris who tells his estranged wife and 13 year old son the story his own 13th year to explain the man he’s become.  Anton Yelchin plays his 13 year old self, a prep-school student who lives with his widowed mother (Tea Leoni), pals around with his retarded friend Pappass (Robin Williams), and is looking for any guidance he can get to weather through those uncertain and confusing preteen years.  His home life and his best friend force him to play an adult role he’s wholly unprepared for, but Tommy’s exuberance and humor allow him to remain the child he still is.  With no stable adults in his life to turn to he’s in the dark as to how to win the affections of schoolmate Melissa (Robin Williams’ daughter Zelda, making her film debut), so he turns to the advice of “Lady” (Erykah Badu) a Women’s House of Detention inmate he’s never seen only heard. As every adult knows, the best intentions of our youth often make for disastrous consequences, and Tommy is forced to learn this lesson in a horrific series of events.

On the surface House of D may seem unfulfilling, as young Tommy’s life is nearly idyllic with the wide open streets of the Village before him, a delivery boy job that is low stress, easy money, and great fringe benefits, and a beautiful young girl who wants his attentions.  But his grace filled path to adult provides friction with his friendship with Pappass, who’s just smart enough to know that he doesn’t get to grow up with his friend. Tommy’s mother is a shattered, chain smoking husk of a woman who wants to be a mother, but relies on her young son to take care of her.  Eventually Tommy is forced to make a choice that erases every shred of his carefree life, and that is what’s kept the grown-up Tommy from being a fully complete human being. 

Though the film does wander into some treacle-covered moments (particularly in the finale), the performance of Anton Yelchin is what makes this movie so enjoyable. I’m convinced that somewhere outside of Hollywood there is a lab dedicated to the creation of each generation’s Henry Thomas (E.T.).  The last one churned out was the talented and quirky Jeremy Davies, but I truly hope Yelchin’s career has more staying power than that.  His easygoing charm and good-natured humor sucks you in, and makes you want Tommy to have the life he deserves.  There’s no awkwardness or stiffness in his delivery and body-language, and he holds his own alongside Frank Langella, Leoni, and a thankfully restrained Williams. 

Robin Williams playing a retarded adult was the thing that made me the most trepidatious about House of D, but outside of playing the character just a tad more intelligent and knowing than is probably accurate, his performance works well.  He never overshadows his young co-star, and his asides and mannerisms help keep an already funny film more lighthearted.  It’s about time Robin Williams found a dramatic role that didn’t require him to maintain a pained grimace from start to finish. 

Tea Leoni has just a few snippets of screen time, but her almost trademark neurosis works incredibly well in her scenes.  It’s always painful to watch parents reduced to relying on their young offspring, and her performance maintains the right balance of pathos and sympathy.  Sure she’s a selfish wreck, but she obviously loves her child.  It’s just that she doesn’t know how to be there for him like Tommy is for her.

Zelda Williams isn’t given much screen time either, but her Melissa feels natural and unaffected.  It’ll be interesting to see where she goes from here.  And Frank Langella? Well he’s as solid as ever.  HBO’s “Unscripted” has him perfectly cast as the jaded mentor to a group of young actors, as he just exudes authority and confidence with every laconic line that leaves his lips.  His stern Catholic headmaster works because for all his gruff and seeming disinterest, he’s genuinely concerned for his charges and just as genuinely disappointed when they fail. 

Duchovny has gone on record as stating that his intent was to make a fable as well as a film, and in that regard he’s succeeded.  Everything is just a little bit more than might be found in everyday life, but only so much as the story requires.  As I stated before, the ending loses a little of its impact, as things wrap up a little too perfectly, but what fable doesn’t?  Overall I’m reminded of Peter Weir’s excellent autobiographical film “The Year My Voice Broke” which might serve as the more realistic and downbeat cousin to House of D.  Both films have a deep and lasting sadness to them, but what life doesn’t?  The heartbreak and loss we suffer define us as much as our accomplishments and House of D does a beautiful job of balancing the humor, the hurt, and the general imbalance of those in-between years. 

If nothing else, go see this film for Anton Yelchin.  If Hollywood knows what’s good for it, this should be the first of a long series of great performances from a young actor with just oodles of potential.

• Title: Crash
• IMDB: link

Racism is a difficult subject to broach cinematically. It’s all too easy to reduce it’s complexities and ignore the underlying reasons for racial tensions all together. Pithy moments of clarity and harsh realizations may make for good viewing, but they hardly touch on the lasting and deep seated effects of our prejudices. Paul Haggis (screenwriter of Million Dollar Baby) makes his directorial debut with Crash, a sprawling look at the seemingly endless well of racism in L.A., but for all its multiple storylines and enlightened moments all that’s left in the end is the idea that deep down we’re all just fundamentally damaged beyond repair, just simmering until that one moment brings our inner racist to the forefront.

Crash tells the story of a various L.A. residents as they careen into one another in what makes for a mind-boggling series of coincidences. Seemingly random events emerge into a pattern of overlapping storylines which are too rushed and slighted to serve as anything more than a cursory glance at these characters’ lives.

…

Crash Is A WreckRead More »

Crash tells the story of a various L.A. residents as they careen into one another in what makes for a mind-boggling series of coincidences. Seemingly random events emerge into a pattern of overlapping storylines which are too rushed and slighted to serve as anything more than a cursory glance at these characters’ lives.

Crash
2 & 1/2 Stars

Racism is a difficult subject to broach cinematically. It’s all too easy to reduce it’s complexities and ignore the underlying reasons for racial tensions all together. Pithy moments of clarity and harsh realizations may make for good viewing, but they hardly touch on the lasting and deep seated effects of our prejudices. Paul Haggis (screenwriter of Million Dollar Baby) makes his directorial debut with Crash, a sprawling look at the seemingly endless well of racism in L.A., but for all its multiple storylines and enlightened moments all that’s left in the end is the idea that deep down we’re all just fundamentally damaged beyond repair, just simmering until that one moment brings our inner racist to the forefront.

Crash tells the story of a various L.A. residents as they careen into one another in what makes for a mind-boggling series of coincidences. Seemingly random events emerge into a pattern of overlapping storylines which are too rushed and slighted to serve as anything more than a cursory glance at these characters’ lives.

A detective (Don Cheadle) deals with the political bargaining of racism while two beat cops (Matt Dillion and Ryan Phillippe) both transcend and exemplify the almost institutionalized racism of the L.A. police department. A district attorney (Brendan Frasier) spins his recent carjacking to political advantage while his wife (Sandra Bullock) discovers her privileged life is nothing more than a never-ending pattern of anger and fear directed at everyone around her.

A television director (Terrance Howard) and his wife (Thandie Newton) suffer the humiliation of overt and discreet racial bias both professional and personal, while two carjackers expound on the racial overtones of seemingly ordinary events while ignoring their own racist views. And finally, a Persian man’s (Shaun Toub) perceived and experienced attacks result in an unfocused need for revenge.

With Crash’s massive cast, sprawling storylines, and L.A. setting, the comparisons to Paul Thomas Anderson’s far superior Magnolia are pretty easy to make. Haggis further blurs the line by including a montage sequence set to a very Aimee Mann-esque tune and a finale that’s more plausible than a rain of frogs, but just as miraculous. But where Magnolia dealt with our need for personal redemption, Crash gives us characters who are irredeemable. Haggis’s view of racial tension in America is one that’s both incredibly myopic and overly simple. Everyone is a racist in this world. All it takes is the right moment for those prejudices to come through and when confronted with implicit and explicit racial bias, his characters act only in their immediate self-interest seemingly unable to stand up against what they know to be wrong.

To be sure the technical aspects of this film work exceptionally well, as the storylines bleed into one another with ease, and the use of transitions makes for a seamless blend. I can’t imagine I’d have ever praised the acting in a film starring Brendan Fraiser, Sandra Bullock, and Tony Danza, but the performances in Crash work to the extent the writing lets them. Cheadle is excellent as always, as is a surprising Matt Dillion. Rapper Chris “Ludacris” Bridges makes a fine serious film debut as the philosophizing carjacker forced to deal with the damage he commits. Ryan Phillipe’s mostly silent perfomance as the young cop trying to do the right thing only to be confronted with his own misconceptions is particularly powerful, but with so little screen time his character’s actions seem almost random. It’s obvious these actors know they are dealing with an important subject, and they do their best to lend the film what weight and impact it manages to convey, but with so many stories and such a heavy-handed approach to such a delicate subject, it’s impossible for these actors to break out from the thumbnail sketches and caricatures Haggis has saddled them with.

Broken down into ever thinning slices, every life can be reduced to sainthood or damnation. Context is everything. Even the most vile character can be sympathetic when we’re shown their point of view, but Crash relies only on confrontation and it’s after effects to explore it’s characters. The idea that we’re all just one bad moment away from displaying our deepest prejudices is too cynical a conclusion that this film makes again and again. A few lines of expository dialogue is no substitute for context and background, and without them it’s unfair to draw conclusions about characters at their most vulnerable or worst. It would be easy to dismiss Crash as an outsider’s view of American racial relations (Writer/Director Paul Haggis is Canadian), but judging from his work on Million Dollar Baby, Haggis takes a dim view of humanity overall and that almost-misanthropy comes through in nearly every scene.

Crash fits into 100 minutes a subject that even a 12 part mini-series couldn’t do justice, and while I certainly think the state of racial relations in the U.S. is a worthy topic of discussion and exploration, I’m left thinking that perhaps Haggis should have left well enough alone. It’s almost unworthy as a discussion starter, as Crash offers no explanations, alternatives, nor solutions instead merely content to highlight our worst behaviors while ignoring our ability to rise above those instincts.

I didn’t expect much from this remake, but I at least hoped that it would have the same level of entertainment value of the 1979 original, and that’s setting the bar mighty low. Bay and Douglas decided that the premise of a truly evil home wasn’t enough, so instead of a gorgeous lakeside Long Island home, the demon house is borderline decrepit and that lessens the atmosphere and effect of finding out your dream home is actually a nightmare. I’m unable to let go of the atrocious use of music in the film, but I’m truly flabbergasted that horror directors continue to rely on cheap music cues to telegraph and emphasis the scares. When William Friedkin made The Exorcist (the only horror film to win an Oscar, no less), he understood that silence is scarier than music as there is absolutely no score for the film, which perfectly heightens the tension and leaves the viewer completely unprepared for the shocks in store. Of course, when you’re scares are as hokey and half-hearted as the Amityville Horror, maybe music is the only crutch available to prop up the flimsy pretense of atmosphere.

Sadly, modern Hollywood is unable to reach that low standard with it’s recent offering of horror films and The Amityville Horror is no exception. Moviegoers made Bay’s previous update The Texas Chainsaw Massacre a moderate success, so much so that a prequel is already in the works, but hopefully moviegoers will send the right message and stay away from this sub-par and aggressively un-entertaining mess of a film. Furthermore here’s hoping that Hollywood will get the message and finally realize that dead-looking little girls with black hair just aren’t scary. I’ll take that creepy redhead teen from Children of the Corn over yet another Sadako clone any day of the week.

The Amityville Horror
2 Stars

1979’s Amityville Horror seems an odd choice for big budget update. The James Brolin / Margot Kidder vehicle was laughably stupid in it’s day, and subsequent revelations about the ‘true story’ aspect make it even more suspect. Never one to be deterred by stupidity nor lack of originality, Michael Bay (Pearl Harbor, Armageddon, Bad Boys 1 & 2) put on his producer hat so that the true evil of Long Island situated Dutch Colonial houses could be announced to the world. Frankly the FM radio hosts of our screening were scarier than anything residing in that spacious lakeside demon house. (Special treat: one of the DJ/MCs might have actually been the Gelfling Jen from The Dark Crystal. I’m glad he’s still able to get work.)

The poster is scarier than this movie. Seriously

In the early morning hours of November 4th, 1974, Ronnie “Butch” DeFeo picked up a .35 caliber rifle and went from room to room of his family’s spacious 112 Ocean Avenue home and murdered his parents and his four siblings. After initially claiming his family was murdered by an angry mob-connected contract killer, Butch confessed and was charged with the murders of his family. His defense put up an insanity defense, but he was eventually convicted of six counts of second-degree murder. In 1976 the Lutz family moved into the former Defeo home, and according to the best selling book, fled in terror not 28 days later from all manner of demonic and ghostly activity.

The newly updated Amityville Horror from producer Bay and director Andrew Douglas recounts the ‘true’ story of the Lutz family and their experiences in that now infamous lakeside home with predictably neo-Horror results. Taking over the James Brolin role as George Lutz is Ryan Reynolds (Blade: Trinity, Van Wilder), who once again proves that he’s often the best thing about the sub-par movies he’s in. Melissa George (Sugar & Spice, Alias) plays his put upon wife Kathy. A trio of previously unknown moppets plays the Lutz brood, and filling out the cast is Phillip Baker Hall as the fly-covered priest (Played by a scenery devouring Rod Stiger in the original). Needless to say, blood drips from walls, furniture moves about of it’s own accord, and CGI technicians have a field day coming up with the shocks and scares which some moron decided to telegraph by a good 30 seconds with obligatory scary music cues.

The only thing that really works in this film is Reynolds’ performance as a good-hearted step dad who’s slowly taken over by the demonic forces of their home. In his pre-posession scenes he’s lighthearted and charming, and his post scenes have the right level of malice and confusion. Sadly, the only real competition he gets in the acting department comes from a KISS loving babysitter (Rachel Nichols) who’s dressed like she’s the 70’s era Stones backstage entertainment only to find out the only action she’s getting is from the malevolent spectra of the DeFeo’s youngest daughter.

The scares are fairly and nonsensical, and in the few instances where they do work their effectiveness is undercut by the obvious music score. There were a number of unintentionally humorous moments in this film, which only proved how inept and ham fisted director Douglas’s attempts at establishing atmosphere truly were. Hollywood can’t seem to keep the working aspects of any original, and Amityville Horror proves the rule by throwing out the original’s explanation of events for a ridiculous third act revelation that turns the film into the fetal-alcohol syndrome child of 13 Ghosts and Poltergeist.

I didn’t expect much from this remake, but I at least hoped that it would have the same level of entertainment value of the 1979 original, and that’s setting the bar mighty low. Bay and Douglas decided that the premise of a truly evil home wasn’t enough, so instead of a gorgeous lakeside Long Island home, the demon house is borderline decrepit and that lessens the atmosphere and effect of finding out your dream home is actually a nightmare. I’m unable to let go of the atrocious use of music in the film, but I’m truly flabbergasted that horror directors continue to rely on cheap music cues to telegraph and emphasis the scares. When William Friedkin made The Exorcist (the only horror film to win an Oscar, no less), he understood that silence is scarier than music as there is absolutely no score for the film, which perfectly heightens the tension and leaves the viewer completely unprepared for the shocks in store. Of course, when you’re scares are as hokey and half-hearted as the Amityville Horror, maybe music is the only crutch available to prop up the flimsy pretense of atmosphere.

Sadly, modern Hollywood is unable to reach that low standard with it’s recent offering of horror films and The Amityville Horror is no exception. Moviegoers made Bay’s previous update The Texas Chainsaw Massacre a moderate success, so much so that a prequel is already in the works, but hopefully moviegoers will send the right message and stay away from this sub-par and aggressively un-entertaining mess of a film. Furthermore here’s hoping that Hollywood will get the message and finally realize that dead-looking little girls with black hair just aren’t scary. I’ll take that creepy redhead teen from Children of the Corn over yet another Sadako clone any day of the week.

While it serves as a serious and intense look into making and mystique of Deep Throat (indeed, they go so far as to include the infamous scene in which Linda Lovelace performs the titular act), the film has no shortage of laugh-out-loud moments. (Again Dick Cavett deserves mention here. His off-the-cuff asides put the current slate of talk-show hosts to utter shame.) In fact, that humor is what ultimately saves the film from it’s half-formed secondary role as a cautionary tale on the effects of a conservative government with it’s sights on freedom of expression which, considering our current political climate, rings true and hollow at the same time.

Inside Deep Throat
4 & 1/2 Stars

The new documentary “Inside Deep Throat” might just be the wiser & hipper cinematic sibling to Paul Thomas Anderson’s debut film Boogie Nights, but where Anderson’s ode to the heydey of big theater porn arrived smack dab in the middle of Bill Clinton’s second term, (among the heady enthusiasm of the Dot Com boom and the continuing fallout of Clinton’s extramarital endeavors), Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato’s (Eyes of Tammy Faye) docmentary arrives in the midst of a conservative backlash against pop culture and it’s love affair with sex.

What makes Inside Deep Throat all the more unlikely is that it comes from Ron Howard’s Imagine studio, and was produced by his long-time business partner Brian Glazer. Granted HBO Films put up some cash for this one as well, but they’ll fund anything that has to do with strippers, porn stars, or (let’s face it) sluts of both sexes.  (Which reminds me:  If any HBO programming people are reading this, I’d like to talk to you about my idea for an erotic retelling of the formation of the League of Nations starring a variety of strippers, porn stars, and sluts.)

That’s not to say that most famous (and infamous) of porn films, Deep Throat, isn’t worthy of a documentary. On the contrary; made in 6 days and for only $25,000 Deep Throat is conceivably the most profitable film ever made, having raked in a staggering 600 million dollars. Unlike the stag films that begat it, Deep Throat was high-chic for the intelligentsia and social liberals, with everyone from Jack Nicholson to Jackie Onassis packing the seats during it’s Times Square run. It also holds the distinction of being banned in 23 states, and it’s government persecution resulted in the first American court case in which an actor (Harry Reems) was convicted for his part in a motion picture. In fact, the factual account of Deep Throat and its impact on American culture puts modern day ‘losers make it big’ films to shame. Mob violence, protests, courtroom drama, and even a couple of obligatory Behind the Music-esque downfall and recoveries, this is one of the most fascinating stories on modern filmaking ever made.

insert pithy porn joke here

As a documentary, Inside Deep Throat knows the inherent titillation factor of it’s subject matter and frames it appropriately. Fast cuts, porny 70’s graphics, and a soundtrack just chock full of ‘wakki-cha’ guitar combined with the lazy cool of counter-culture icon Dennis Hopper’s voiceover work to make this one of the slickest documentaries in existence. Context and color commentary is provided from a staggering array of famous figures of the intellectual bend like Gore Vidal (of course), Norman Mailer (of course), Camille Paglia, Erica Jong, Carl Bernstein, and Alan Dershowitz. The sheer variety of access given these filmakers is staggering. Nixon prosecutor Charles Keating, Hugh Hefner, Memphis prosecutor Larry Parrish, FBI Agent Bill Purcell, and an incredibly witty Dick Cavett, are just a few more of the talking heads who weigh in on the impact of Deep Throat. There’s big money behind this and it shows. Though for all it’s flash and snap, the heart of this documentary lies in the recollections and lives of those men and women directly responsible for the phenomenon that was Deep Throat.

Gerard Damiano (the director), Harry Reems (the lead actor), production manager Ron Wertheim, and archival clips of the star Linda Lovelace (who died in 2002 from injuries sustained in a car wreck), tell an immensely entertaining and riveting story of some 70’s swingers who just wanted to make movies. With the exception of Lovelace (who testified against the porn industry for two congressional committees as well as in her auto-biography, but later recanted her sentiments and accusations), those involved look back on their experience with fondness and candor (and more than a little regret: None of the principals involved saw more than the tiniest kernel of profit compared to what the film went on to achieve for it’s mob-affiliated owners). The world’s most foul-mouthed location manager steals every frame he’s in with his disgusted and dismissive reminiscing, and a Florida man who distributed the film in the South is constantly upstaged by his wife, who continually chides him for talking about their mob run-ins. While their talk about the artistic value of Deep Throat may seem naive and self-important, these people believed in what they were doing and that conviction comes through.

While it serves as a serious and intense look into making and mystique of Deep Throat (indeed, they go so far as to include the infamous scene in which Linda Lovelace performs the titular act), the film has no shortage of laugh-out-loud moments. (Again Dick Cavett deserves mention here. His off-the-cuff asides put the current slate of talk-show hosts to utter shame.) In fact, that humor is what ultimately saves the film from it’s half-formed secondary role as a cautionary tale on the effects of a conservative government with it’s sights on freedom of expression which, considering our current political climate, rings true and hollow at the same time.

Overall, Inside Deep Throat is an absolute treat of a documentary. After all, what else is the genre for if not for showcasing interesting people telling fascinating stories about a endlessly compelling subject? It also proves how powerful a format documentary filmmaking can be when backed by big studios and all the access and money they can provide. Deep Throat ultimately proved to be an aberration, as porn soon lost it’s chic and celebrity accolades with the advent of VHS and the continuing decline in quality and lightheartedness that followed. Sex still sells, but the only cultural relevance of porn remains in it’s ability to show just how weird and twisted our sexual fantasies can be. But for one brief shining moment average men and women sat beside movie stars and cultural adventurers as Linda Lovelace found her tingler on a 30 foot screen, and that impact is still being felt today. For that reason alone, Inside Deep Throat is worth your time, but if you need another selling point try this: Where else are you going to get the experience of hearing 83 year old writer, magazine publisher, and feminist Helen Gurley Brown talk about rubbing semen all over her face, neck, and breasts? (Note: If you have an answer for that, I don’t want to know it.)