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Showing posts with the label IMDb

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 97: Casper

… “the first feature film to have a fully computer-generated … character in a leading role,” according to the IMDb.

Indeed, when ghostly young Casper is granted a few hours of re-embodiment, his human portrayer is less winsome than the computer-generated spirit. This is less a mark of human failure than of technical virtuosity.

Along with Casper, there are three other principal ghosts: “Fatso,” “Stretch,” and “Stinkie,” Casper’s loutish uncles. Physically, they’re overgrown soap bubbles. They’re corporeal, but just barely. You can see them – and see through them. If you touch them, they dissipate. (No harm is done; they easily re-form.) Fat or thin, they’re rounded: there’s little angularity, and no severity, in their faces.


The uncles are malicious but jovial. Casper himself would be cuddly were he more than minimally solid. Such is his plight: he can love, but he can’t be embraced by his beloved.

The movie is a child-friendly version of the classic story of a romantic encounter between a human and a god (an angel, a sprite, a space alien, etc.). The themes are inaccessibility and yearning.


The girl is played by 1990s “child scare-queen” Christina Ricci (The Addams Family; Sleepy Hollow). Casper sees her and falls in love. (That’s also how I felt about her in the mid-nineties.) Ricci is Kat, the daughter of Dr. Harvey (Bill Pullman), a psychologist who specializes in therapy for the dead – or, as he calls them, the “living impaired.” He explains that ghosts are people who fail to fully “cross over” because of “unresolved issues.” Dr. Harvey has an unresolved issue of his own, which is that his wife’s death has left him griefstricken and dialed up his eccentricity to eleven. He drags Kat across the country so that he can talk to ghosts and track down his wife’s spirit.

Dr. Harvey and Kat end up in Maine, in the run-down, Gothic dwelling of Casper and his uncles, at the behest of treasure-hunters played by Eric Idle (Monty Python) and Cathy Moriarty (most famous as Robert De Niro’s chilly wife in Raging Bull). Idle and Moriarty are involved in the movie’s funniest scenes, some of which also benefit from cameos by Saturday Night Live icons – a conceit repeated by director Brad Silberling in his Land of the Lost (2009).

For example:


The uncles like to frighten people. Casper tries to befriend people. The effect is the same: the living flee in terror. Until the Harveys arrive, that is. They weather the initial storm. Soon, Casper is cooking Kat’s breakfast, and the uncles are taking a shine to the Doctor – so much so, in fact, that they plot for him to die so that he can join their posse.

Kat, meanwhile, is grateful for Casper’s attention, although she’d rather be with the local flesh-and-blood heart-throb (cue Carrie references). Will Casper win her over? In the spirit of Ray Bradbury, yes and no. Carefully attend to Casper’s re-embodiment scene. It becomes clear that Kat would accept him only under conditions that he couldn’t permanently satisfy; and, perhaps, rightly so. The movie is bittersweet.

It also has more swearing and gross-out humor than your average children’s movie. (Again, see Silberling’s Land of the Lost, which, wisely, targets an older audience.) Casper’s plight might be at the movie’s center, but the tone is set by those hedonistic vulgarians, the uncles. Which is just as well: the core is perhaps too sad.

I liked the set design best of all. The run-down mansion is exquisite. There are lots of visual references to old movies – to Oz, especially. Afterward, I wanted to watch Casper again, to see how many references I could count; Land of the Lost, too.

Melania

The title of this post will have raised some eyebrows. Did he watch the documentary? Is he going to review it? And so I must immediately temper expectations. No, I didn’t watch it. Perhaps I shall, some day. I’m in no hurry.

I just want to note what strikes me as an extraordinary response by the public and the critics.

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Melania has an aggregate rating of 1.3 from 10 at the IMDb. Some 49 thousand votes have been submitted.

Surely it isn’t that bad? Even Caligula (1979) manages a rating of 5.3.

Ah, here we go. “Our rating mechanism has detected unusual voting activity on this title,” the website disclaims.

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“Trump Film is a Gilded Trash Remake of
The Zone of Interest

The Guardian opines. Quite a good dig, that.

(The Zone of Interest, if you didn’t know, depicts the opulence of an Auschwitz commandant’s household.)

Again, the vitriol is excessive. Or not? Time will tell.

No, it really is excessive, no matter how things turn out. Melania evidently is no Triumph of the Will. It doesn’t show a nation’s diabolic fervor. It’s just a vanity project. This sort of thing has been done before and will be done again. Sometimes, a despot commisions it (cf. Turkmenistan); sometimes, it’s just the excrescence of some rich dude, as when Charles Foster Kane pays for his wife to be an opera lead. I expect Melania is in between.

Here’s a more sympathetic Guardian review.

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 66: Microcosmos

“A documentary on insect life in meadows and ponds” (IMDb).


I’ll try to be brief. This is the rare masterpiece about which the less is said, the better.

First, what it isn’t: a documentary in David Attenborough’s vein. No attempt is made to explain why these creatures are designed as they are, why they behave as they do, or how they are connected to the ecosystem. This is no sociological treatise. It doesn’t exist to sway one’s opinions or to add to one’s store of knowledge.

Very few words are spoken. They are in French.

There is an English version, narrated by Kristin Scott Thomas:
A meadow in early morning, somewhere on Earth. Hidden here is a world as vast as our own, where the weeds are like impenetrable jungles, the stones are mountains, and even the smallest pond becomes an ocean. Time passes differently here: an hour is like a day, a day is like a season, and the passing of a season is a lifetime. But to observe this world, we must fall silent now, and listen to its murmurs.
The creatures and their habitat remain alien, exotic. Perhaps the movie makes them more so. Dragonflies and bees, grasses and flowers and puddles, are so closely and brightly photographed that they look glossy and artificial, as if they were insect-mannequins perched upon display furniture. (By comparison, their synthetic counterparts in Honey, I Shrunk the Kids appear grittily realistic.) But if magnification makes real insects seem curiously more and less genuine, it also bestows personality on their movements. A viewer is tempted to ascribe human-like intentionity to these bugs – and, also, to the plants, which, in speeded-up sequences, curl themselves up or spread themselves out, or wrap themselves around hapless pollinators.

There is music: classical, new-age. There are idyllic panoramic shots. Surprisingly, it matters that the movie is French: I kept half-expecting to glimpse, at the bottom of the screen, that ant-like, Sisyphean pseudo-peasant, Jean de Florette, hauling building materials across a meadow. The lighting at close range is vivid, if not harsh; at a distance, it is softer, not so unlike the lighting and focus of those gorgeous, delicately pervy, tedious offerings of David Hamilton, that English confectioner of French nubile skin.

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My reaction, the first time I viewed Microcosmos, was ho-hum. I’d been hoping for years to see it, ever since it was reviewed by Siskel & Ebert. One afternoon, the Cornell Cinema screened it for children. When I sat down, I noticed a fellow grad student ushering his large brood across the theater row in front of mine. The excited children settled in; the lights were dimmed; clouds appeared on the screen, landscapes came into view, and the first insect protagonists did their numbers. Soon, I was asleep. I slept through the rest of the movie (it isn’t long).

I revisited it last night with Samuel and Daniel, who, insect-like, climbed up and down the furniture and my person the whole while. Even so, they paid attention. Samuel is still talking about Microcosmos today. I, too, itch to see it again.

It’s a good movie to chill out to.

42 days of darkness

Here’s somewhere you don’t often see on TV: the affluent, beautiful, dismal Los Lagos region of southern Chile. It’s where Netflix’s 42 Days of Darkness is set. I enjoy cloudy weather, or I believed I did; I once thought it’d be nice to live in Puerto Montt. But natural beauty never looked so dreary as in this show.

More precisely, the setting is Puerto Varas, on Lago Llanquihue. A housewife disappears from a gated community. Has she been kidnapped, as her husband claims? Has she been murdered? Has she simply abandoned her family? The police investigate at a snail’s pace. Brisker progress is made by a hustling lawyer and his associates, who are moved as much by the compulsion to snoop as by the prospect of helping the family (and receiving payment). The story is modeled after a true one – I don’t know how closely. Stories of missing persons are the most wrenching to watch. I dread putting each episode on; and then I quickly get carried along, buoyed by the energy of the desperate, shabby lawyer as he struggles against the complacency of other lawyers and the police. It’s as if Ramón Valdés from El Chavo del Ocho set out to solve a crime.

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 47: Cracker

I may as well begin with IMDb’s description:
Dr Edward “Fitz” Fitzgerald is a criminal psychologist. He is rather anti-social and obnoxious but he has a gift for solving crimes. Thus he is employed as a consultant by the Manchester Police.
Stock character? Too much like Sherlock Holmes? Or Doctor Gregory House?

(House is Holmes.)

“Fitz” – Robbie Coltrane, Hagrid in the Harry Potter movies – is greater than either of them. Greater in greatness, and in girth. He’s the Sir John Falstaff of police TV. He gambles and drinks and smokes and constantly needles people because he’s often bored; and he’s bored because he’s so, so smart. He’s also breathtakingly humane. He is, as they say, a “well-rounded” character in more senses than one.

The police are numbskulls, except for D.S. Jane Penhaligon (Geraldine Somerville). “Panhandle,” “Fitz” calls her. Penhaligon is smart and humane, too, and she loves “Fitz” despite his enormities.

One other young woman loves “Fitz.” She ends up committing a series of murders to capture his attention.

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“Fitz’s” wife, Judith (Barbara Flynn), isn’t much better. She also loves “Fitz,” but then, understandably enough, she leaves him; and comes back, and leaves him, and comes back, and leverages her woes to gain advantage (although “Fitz” is mostly immune to manipulation, which frustrates Judith to no end).

I wonder if today’s cop shows are trying to follow Cracker’s lead. Many policing dramas double as domestic ones, and Cracker is hands-down the best in this respect.

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So, I guess the show’s premise is:

What if Sherlock Holmes were – like Sir John Falstaff – fat, witty, and empathetic, but still outrageous; and what if this hero had, instead of bachelor acolytes, a wife and kids?

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There is no “Watson” figure. The closest analog would be D.S. Penhaligon, but she is very much a force herself. I’ve sometimes thought, As great as “Fitz” is, this is the Penhaligon show.

“Fitz’s” is a hiltarity of excess. Penhaligon’s mode is lean, restrained, acerbic, grim.

Then tragedy afflicts her, and even her humor goes away. It’s not altogether a bad development. It allows her to free herself from “Fitz.”

The Shakespearean parallel would be with Prince Hal: Penhaligon is made for better things.

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Then there are the murderers.

Not many policing shows bestow so much time or sympathy upon these people. Almost all are wounded little birds – “grotesques,” to recall Winesburg, Ohio. Cracker arguably made some of these acting careers (Robert Carlyle’s, Susan Lynch’s). One actor who didn’t become so famous, but who is perhaps the most affecting, is Andrew Tiernan, who plays a stutterer caught up in a Bonnie-and-Clyde relationship with Lynch’s chilling character. Broken though he is, he is allowed a great measure of self-determination and dignity until the very end of his story.

Almost all the “grotesques” are complex. This show is a whydunnit, not a whodunnit; often the murderers don’t know their own motives. But “Fitz” knows, and by the end of each story, he is sympathetically explaining to them what has driven them to do their crimes. Each motive is understandable; sometimes, in a very sad way, it is even laudable. Some murderers lash out at “Fitz.” Others surrender to his insight. The woman I mentioned earlier, the one who murders to gain “Fitz’s” attention – to earn a diagnosis from him – is the clearest example of this. Would you like me to explain to you? he asks, tenderly, in the interrogation room. Yes, she begs. It is a moment charged with eroticism and humanity, because it’s about the possibility of finally being seen and understood.

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“Fitz” himself is converted, within many of the stories, from bully to empath. It’s not so much that he can run hot or cold at will; it’s that he has one tap, one irrepressible, gushing stream of intelligence, and it has to run a while before it’s fully warmed up, before self-gratifying banter can become clever guesswork and then intimate certitude. Each murderer, each colleague, each family relation, is a different, evolving person, and so “Fitz” undergoes this process again and again.

In this scene, he is in the middle of the process.


(I like Penhaligon’s smirk.)

The show ran from 1993 to 1996 and had an encore in 2006: “Fitz” returns to Manchester after several years in Australia.

Midlife

As I watch the gentle, rather silly new crime drama McDonald & Dodds, several of the actors seem middle-aged; but when I look them up on IMDb, I learn they are much younger than I am.

What is more disturbing, the actor who plays Detective Sergeant Dodds – the show’s “doddering old man” – is only fifteen years older than I am.

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I didn’t intend to, but I seem to have begun a “philosophy of the stages of life” binge: not only Kieran Setiya’s Midlife, but also Susan Neiman’s Why Grow Up? Subversive Thoughts for an Infantile Age and John Martin Fischer’s & Benjamin Mitchell-Yellin’s Near-Death Experiences.

Perhaps Dante is my subconscious inspiration.

Perhaps it’s just that these books are written for a popular audience, and reading them has been an easy way to meet my daily quota of philosophy.

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I actually think the “stages of life” approach is overblown. Life is less like a journey, more like a series of Peanuts strips, in which each character plays out endless variations of a core individuality. Even the extremes of the natural lifespan – the beginning and the end – are more like waking up and going to sleep, or growing and shrinking, than like starting and ceasing to be. I was in a class in which the teacher surveyed what each philosopher thought happens when you die. What about Leibniz, someone asked. The teacher said, Leibniz thinks that when you die, you get very small. And then, of course, you grow again (Leibniz believed in resurrection). The “oscillating universe” theory of cosmology may not be fashionable these days – I wouldn’t know, I stopped paying attention after Carl Sagan – but an “oscillating self” theory seems plausible to me (until it doesn’t, until it does).

Quarantining, cont.

Thursday was rough for Samuel – for all of us, really – as he came down with a fever. We called his doctor’s office and were advised to take him to the emergency room. So that’s what Karin did. (Her time of contagiousness had just ended.) I stayed at home. The emergency room doctor was pretty snippy with Karin until Samuel’s COVID test came back positive. Then the doctor’s tone changed. Samuel was x-rayed, given two doses of strong medicine, allowed to take a long nap in the hospital, and then sent home.

Friday, he again had a fever, but we soon brought it down; yesterday, he was better still.

Friday, also, I turned forty. It was odd to spend all of a birthday indoors. (I may have put a foot out on the front porch, to bring in the mail.)

I did what I like to do on my birthday, which is to subject Karin to one of my favorite movies; this year, it was Barcelona. Here is some funny trivia from the IMDb: “The plot was first suggested to director Whit Stillman when he heard of An Officer and a Gentleman (1982) and thought it referred to two different people.”

If I am not mistaken, Wednesday will be the first day that I can leave the house. Samuel will have to be quarantined several days longer.

House hunting

You’ll recall that we have been living in my parents’ house while they’ve remained in Ecuador. Well, their arrival isn’t imminent, but neither is it far off. And since real estate is likely to get more expensive in the next year or so, Karin & I have begun shopping for a house.

It isn’t pleasant. Shopping for books is pleasant: no single book has the potential to bankrupt you. Not so with houses.

Also, I know something about buying books. I know very little about buying houses.

To me, most houses look pretty good. I’m oblivious to many inconveniences. I’m even more oblivious to problems that would diminish the resale value of a house.

Karin & I visited two properties this week. Samuel was delighted to run around in them. One of the houses looked out upon a busy street. The other had broken glass on its basement floor, and there were pitbulls living next door. So, this is something else to worry about: Will this property be a death-trap for our son?

Already we see manifest what I’ve read about, that many cheap houses are bought by large companies and quickly “flipped,” i.e., cosmetically improved and then resold at a much higher price – often to buyers who wish to earn “turn-key” rental income. Meanwhile, buyers who actually need a dwelling are priced out. There oughta be a law …
When I was ten years old, I was rich, I was an aristocrat. Riding around in taxis, surrounded by comfort, and all I thought about was art and music. Now, I’m thirty-six, and all I think about is money.
Was Wallace Shawn really just thirty-six in My Dinner with Andre?

Was I really just eighteen when I saw that movie?

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A good book I’d never read until this month: C.S. Lewis, Reflections on the Psalms.

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 31: The truth about cats & dogs

From IMDb:
Janeane Garofalo has been quite vocal about how unhappy she was with the film. Initially it was an independent film, but it was turned into a big-studio project when Uma Thurman signed on. Garofalo remarked, “I think it’s soft and corny. The soundtrack makes you want to puke. And everybody’s dressed in Banana Republic clothing. The original script and intent was very different. It was supposed to be a small-budget independent film, with a lot more complexity to the characters. …” Garofalo has since disowned the film, calling it anti-feminist.
Ah, well, too bad. This is the movie she’ll be remembered for.

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Well, maybe not. IMDb lists the top four movies she’s known for:
  • Ratatouille
  • Mystery Men
  • Wet Hot American Summer
  • Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion
Not, alas, The Truth about Cats & Dogs.

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I was just out of college when I saw this movie on TV. Since then, I’ve fondly remembered Garofalo’s performance. I didn’t remember that Uma Thurman was in the movie. Not that Thurman is bad; hers is a tricky role, and she acquits herself with aplomb. It’s just that Garofalo is superb.


Garofalo plays a type who appears now and then in romanctic comedies set in and around Los Angeles:
A variant of the “lonely hearts” columnist, this stock character dispenses advice, over the radio, about matters of the heart. Off the air, however, she is lonely. Against her better judgment, she permits one of her callers to get a little too close for comfort.
The splendidly earnest Geneviève Bujold, in Choose Me (1984), occupies this role. A more recent example – who is much more crass – is a young woman who hosts a satellite radio show in the third season of Netflix’s Love.

Garofalo’s character, Abby Barnes, is situated halfway between these two radio personalities. A veterinarian, she gives medical and relational advice to pet owners. She has a distinctive style: her wordplay is quick and slightly off-color; her advice is blunt but kind. One can believe that a casual listener would stop turning the dial and settle down to hear Doctor Abby Barnes talk to strangers about their pets.

One caller is Brian (Ben Chaplin), a young Britisher whose dog is having a crisis. Abby gives helpful advice. Brian calls again (not on the air) to ask Abby out on a date. Abby reluctantly agrees.

“What do you look like?” Brian asks.

This touches a nerve. Abby tells him that she is tall and blond (she is short and dark). She stands him up.

And then the movie puts its stock protagonist into a rather different stock scenario:
The protagonist’s love object becomes attracted to one of the protagonist’s friends. To disavow any claim on the love object – and, perhaps, to remain in the love object’s orbit – the protagonist encourages the relationship by advising and lending considerable wit to the friend.
This, of course, is the plot of Cyrano de Bergerac and its progeny (e.g., Roxanne). Usually, the witty, pining protagonist is a man, and the love object is a woman. This is inverted in The Truth about Cats & Dogs.

Abby’s friend is Noelle, a relatively new acquaintance who is getting out of a bad relationship. Noelle is played by Uma Thurman, who is blond and very tall. When Brian comes to the radio station to plead his case to Abby, he sees Noelle and infers that she must be Doctor Barnes.


Abby tells Noelle not to correct the misunderstanding. In the rest of the movie, Brian woos the awkward Noelle, whom he believes to be Abby, while Abby tags along as a “third wheel.” Of course, there are sparks between Abby and Brian.


And there you have it: the story plays out as you might expect it to do.

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The movie’s strength lies in its characterizations. Chaplin makes Brian into a very nice bloke. He is as kind to Abby as to Noelle when the three of them are together – and, indeed, when he and Abby happen to be together without Noelle. He also must convey both singlemindedness and vacillation: he is resolved to persist in wooing the person with whom he has spoken on the radio, but when he’s with “Abby,” she isn’t at all the sort of person he knows Abby to be.

The real Abby, loving him from afar, is the character who makes the movie fun to watch. It’s poignant to observe a cynical person gradually realize that she is desired for herself. In one long sequence, Brian calls Abby at her apartment. Since they’re physically apart, Brian believes he is talking to Uma Thurman’s “Abby.” Even so, the real Abby is drawn to him. She and Brian talk until early morning. One blush follows another as Abby hears Brian compliment her, tease her, and declare his love – love for her mind, her character, rather than for Uma Thurman’s looks.

Thurman’s is perhaps the most difficult role to pull off. Noelle, who is superficially dim, has reserves of insight and fellow-feeling. She receives lots of ill-intended focus from men. It’s as surpising to her as it is to Abby when someone as kind and attentive as Brian comes wooing.


The movie is predictable, but there is a tiny amount of suspense. How will the disclosure of “Abby’s” real identity affect Noelle’s and Abby’s friendship?

There are signs that Noelle wants Brian for herself, despite his connection with Abby. But is Noelle really the kind of person who’d betray her friend?

Abby believes she might be. Partly, this is her knee-jerk assessment of women who are desired by lots and lots of men. But Abby also believes it because, in this case, it’s not altogether off the mark.

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I’ll give away the ending:

Noelle stands with her friend.


The movie has lots of animals in it. They’re included for comic effect. But the movie is about people, not animals. Why, then, is it called The Truth about Cats & Dogs? What truth does the movie reveal about cats and dogs?

Well, let’s allow ourselves to be a little crude and to put scare quotes around some of the words: THE TRUTH ABOUT “CATS” & “DOGS.” Some beautiful women are thought of as “cats” who undermine other women. And some women are thought of, or think of themselves, as ugly “dogs.” The title suggests that these hateful appraisals need not be true.

Also: “CATS” & “DOGS.” Ampersand. “Cats” and “dogs” in partnership – as friends.

The movie may be “soft and corny,” as Garofalo says, but that doesn’t make it anti-feminist. It’s anti-anti-feminist. It’s about how a smart woman who has trouble getting along with certain other women learns to see the truth about her friend and herself. Perhaps I’m “mansplaining,” but I wish Garofalo would look beyond the glamorous casting and the Banana Republic clothes and see the truth about what a lovely movie she’s helped to make.

Pepe is of the immortals

In one day, Samuel has gone from slithering on his belly to crawling. He used to crawl just one or two feet at a time. Now it’s his preferred mode of locomotion.

He still slithers when his arms are weary.

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Full episodes of Midsomer Murders have long been streamable gratis, with advertisements, through IMDb.

Now, FilmRise has posted quite a few episodes to YouTube. The videos appear to be ad-free.

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Watching the UEFA Nations League, I was a little surprised to see Pepe trot out onto the field for Portugal. “He is so, so old,” I told Karin.

(He’s only a couple of years younger than I am. He’s older than David.)

“Maybe he’s like Grimes,” said Karin.

It took me a moment to understand whom she meant. At first, I was thinking of Grimes the musician. Then I realized that Karin was referring to Captain Grimes of Evelyn Waugh’s Decline and Fall.

GRIMES WAS OF THE IMMORTALS