Typically, a filmmaker mixing crippling disease, religious themes, and 45 minutes of intensely uncomfortable sex would get a box office flop with a poignant message about the human condition. The Sessions does the opposite of this. The Sessions tells the story of 38-year-old paraplegic poet Mark O'Brien (John Hawkes) as he goes on a series of marvelous misadventures in an attempt to create intimacy by hiring a sex surrogate to take his virginity. Instead of the dark, edgy piece of cinema one would expect when dealing with such an intimate and depressing topic, The Sessions is sickeningly sweet.
In a couple of ways, there's no point in worrying about spoilers when reviewing The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey. It's adapted from a 75-year-old book that a seemingly high percentage of the English-speaking world is already familiar with, and this is the first part of a trilogy, so nothing here gives away the ending if by some miracle you don't already know what it is. So I can, in good conscience, make this not just a review, but also an analysis of differences between the book and the movie, and that is what I will do. Because if you thought director Peter Jackson's The Lord of the Rings trilogy deviated a lot from J.R.R. Tolkien's original books, you ain't seen nothing yet.
What you can say about Quentin Tarantino that hasn’t already been said in spades? He’s been called a genius. An idiot. A master. A destroyer of independent film. A visionary. And the “century’s biggest racist.”
Tarantino, in his affably rudimentary manner, analyzes himself best: “Possibly I just grew up watching a lot of movies. I'm attracted to this genre and that genre, this type of story, and that type of story. As I watch movies I make some version of it in my head that isn't quite what I'm seeing -- taking the things I like and mixing them with stuff I've never seen before."
Who Bombed Judi Bari? is one of the most extraordinary documentaries -- actually one of the most extraordinary films -- I have ever seen. It accomplishes something extremely out-of-the-ordinary: It not only substantially and vividly makes its point about environmental issues and the sizable contribution environmental activist Judi Bari made during her lifetime, but as it progresses it enters the domain of the "transcendental," the rarest of cinematic feats.
Who Bombed Judi Bari? is much, much more than an environmental activist documentary. Directed and edited by Mary Liz Thomson, and produced by Darryl Cherney (who endured the bombing and its aftereffects alongside Judi), it creates an intense, often amusing, wrenching, and ultimately extraordinarily inspiring cinematic experience.
Imagine being locked in a bathroom with a horny, septuagenarian columnist and a young female journalism student in her early twenties, both nude, for over an hour. Seldom has a great film accomplished so much with so little. Well, that's if you consider an insanely quotable screenplay so little.
Director/writer David Trueba's phenomenally witty Madrid, 1987 is an expertly constructed exploration of politics, gender roles, the art of writing, fame, and aging randiness set against a Spain that has moved from fascism to communism to unrepentant capitalism: "Overstepping human rights in the fight against terrorism was never an issue."
As Susan Sontag noted, "Existence is no more than the precarious attainment of relevance in an intensely mobile flux of past, present, and future."
Ben Affleck's Argo and Lorraine Levy's The Other Son, both centered in the Middle East, put to use the past to comment on the present and, in a sense, predict the future, with seesawing views of optimism.
If you have viewed all eight seasons of Foyle's War on Netflix, as any responsible TV aficionado should have done by now, you'll know how peeved the Brits were about America's late entry into World War II.
Well, Hyde Park on Hudson chronicles how King George VI (Samuel West) and Queen Elizabeth (Olivia Colman) of England traipsed across the Atlantic to convince FDR and the American public to set aside their beloved isolationist stances and come to the aid of the free world and help beat up the Nazis. This, as you will learn, was accomplished with the aid of hot dogs and mustard.
Time travel paradoxes are not really so tough. In fact, as Looper unwinds, we find that time travel relatively light-weight stuff compared everything else that happens in the story. It’s a little bit like The Matrix, where you discover that a modestly talented hacker has been sent careening into Alice’s nightmare chasm.
Looper takes place in 2044, but this version of the future looks like '70s urban squalor with a splash of Studio 54. We get the sense that life is cheap in this brave old world, and that’s because just about everybody we meet is a killer, or a boss (Jeff Daniels), or an underling, or a stripper.
"The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there," L.P. Hartley noted in the opening of his novel The Go-Between.
In 1986, Francis Ford Coppola tried to explore that notion with his wan whimsy in Peggy Sue Got Married, which closed the New York Film Festival. Kathleen Turner, who was nearing the end of her film career as a marketable entity on the West Coast (The War of the Roses (1989) was her final Hollywood hit), starred as the eponymous fortyish mother whose greasy spouse (Nicolas Cage) is ditching her. Distraught, Peggy Sue is persuaded to attend her high school reunion where she ends up being crowned queen. Immediately, she collapses and winds up traveling back in time to her teens. The quirk is that both she and the audience see that Peggy Sue clearly is a middle-aged mom dressing up in age-inappropriate attire, while her parents, friends, and all the other screen personae see her as she would have been at age 16.
Taylor Mead, the love child of Bette Davis and Peter Lorre, is one of the truly great comic geniuses of underground films, theater, poetry, cabaret, and cable TV of the Sixties and beyond. He was and is still quite hilarious, even if just stumbling down an East Village Street by himself, his traipse being a sort of Danse Macabre as envisioned by Pee Wee Herman.
An Andy Warhol Superstar, possibly best known for his hysterical “gunslinger” in Lonesome Cowboys, Mead’s brilliance never shined brighter than when he took on the title role in Michael McClure’s outrageous off-off-Broadway play, Spider Rabbit, in which he essayed a bunny who adored eating human brains.