Buried (2010)
dir: Rodrigo Cortés
I just recently made the long-overdue decision to drag myself out of the dregs of social obscurity and technological lameness by upgrading to a “smartphone.” It wasn’t an easy decision to make, due primarily to my own stubborn and stupidly Matrix-based refusal to embrace any new device that could, in some way, “like destroy what makes us people, maaaaaan.” Thankfully my equally stubborn and reasonably boner-based desire to be able to look at breasts and vaginas, however tiny they may be, at any given moment and in any given location, finally urged me forward into the brave new dawn of internet-dependent human cyborg communications. So far I’ve utilized this magical box of microchips that I carry around in my pocket to bore strangers with tweets about my bowel movements, look up the hours of restaurants that are within walking distance from my apartment, and download apps ranging from an encyclopedia of marijuana strains to an exhaustive dictionary of Mexican slang. I will never, ever use any of these apps, but it’s nice to know that they’re there. There is a strange sense of comfort inherent in owning something so needlessly useful and permanently available, and it’s a concept that is not lost on the frustratingly likeable Ryan Reynolds’s character in Cortés almost-good cinematic experiment. Spoilers be damned, there isn’t too much to ruin here by informing you that the entirety of this film takes place within the confined space of a coffin which both Reynolds and the camera never manage to leave. His own cell phone serves as his only link to the outside world as he attempts to figure out exactly why he has been buried alive, by whom and what it will take to be rescued. The answers to these questions are predictable and unfortunately border on ethnocentric, misinformed bigotry (the “terrorist” voice on the other end of the line is a laughably racist depiction, and his diatribes against the U.S. invasion of Iraq may be well-meaning on the part of the filmmakers but come across as pedestrian and overly vague), but the technical execution is certainly something to behold. Cortés’s undeniably impressive mise-en-scène manages to maintain interest for the entire length of the film, somehow infusing each frame with enough variety to prevent the admittedly limited scenario from becoming redundant. Reynolds deserves some credit here, too. Dude is the sole actor, and the restrictions that result from his predicament render it impossible to rely on his usual charms, themselves dependent upon his attractive physical presence. He manages to infuse the dialogue-based performance with subtle depth; in just one example that counters his usual typecasting as a smart-assed and goofy but ultimately righteous embodiment of underlying misogyny (in films made by undercover sexists), his sudden bursts of vocal rage here—usually directed at women—accurately depict the hidden tendency towards violence that often accompany many standard alpha-male interactions with the fairer sex. It is not a flattering portrayal, especially when considering the actor’s usual likeability. Still, one cannot help but feel sympathy for this character, himself a simple worker damned to a cruel fate by forces over which he has no control and foreign policies and situations of which he is dangerously ignorant. It’s too bad that this technically stunning film wasn’t provided with a better script, as the few other elements involved end up working so well.
More movies, y’all, after the jump…
Buried (2010)
dir: Rodrigo Cortés
I just recently made the long-overdue decision to drag myself out of the dregs of social obscurity and technological lameness by upgrading to a “smartphone.” It wasn’t an easy decision to make, due primarily to my own stubborn and stupidly Matrix-based refusal to embrace any new device that could, in some way, “like destroy what makes us people, maaaaaan.” Thankfully my equally stubborn and reasonably boner-based desire to be able to look at breasts and vaginas, however tiny they may be, at any given moment and in any given location, finally urged me forward into the brave new dawn of internet-dependent human cyborg communications. So far I’ve utilized this magical box of microchips that I carry around in my pocket to bore strangers with tweets about my bowel movements, look up the hours of restaurants that are within walking distance from my apartment, and download apps ranging from an encyclopedia of marijuana strains to an exhaustive dictionary of Mexican slang. I will never, ever use any of these apps, but it’s nice to know that they’re there. There is a strange sense of comfort inherent in owning something so needlessly useful and permanently available, and it’s a concept that is not lost on the frustratingly likeable Ryan Reynolds’s character in Cortés almost-good cinematic experiment. Spoilers be damned, there isn’t too much to ruin here by informing you that the entirety of this film takes place within the confined space of a coffin which both Reynolds and the camera never manage to leave. His own cell phone serves as his only link to the outside world as he attempts to figure out exactly why he has been buried alive, by whom and what it will take to be rescued. The answers to these questions are predictable and unfortunately border on ethnocentric, misinformed bigotry (the “terrorist” voice on the other end of the line is a laughably racist depiction, and his diatribes against the U.S. invasion of Iraq may be well-meaning on the part of the filmmakers but come across as pedestrian and overly vague), but the technical execution is certainly something to behold. Cortés’s undeniably impressive mise-en-scène manages to maintain interest for the entire length of the film, somehow infusing each frame with enough variety to prevent the admittedly limited scenario from becoming redundant. Reynolds deserves some credit here, too. Dude is the sole actor, and the restrictions that result from his predicament render it impossible to rely on his usual charms, themselves dependent upon his attractive physical presence. He manages to infuse the dialogue-based performance with subtle depth; in just one example that counters his usual typecasting as a smart-assed and goofy but ultimately righteous embodiment of underlying misogyny (in films made by undercover sexists), his sudden bursts of vocal rage here—usually directed at women—accurately depict the hidden tendency towards violence that often accompany many standard alpha-male interactions with the fairer sex. It is not a flattering portrayal, especially when considering the actor’s usual likeability. Still, one cannot help but feel sympathy for this character, himself a simple worker damned to a cruel fate by forces over which he has no control and foreign policies and situations of which he is dangerously ignorant. It’s too bad that this technically stunning film wasn’t provided with a better script, as the few other elements involved end up working so well.
More movies, y’all, after the jump…
Thor (2011)
dir: Kenneth Branagh
Bad news first: this movie pretty much blows. Try not to assume that this is an arrogant dismissal by some asshole who only buys Criterion DVDs and refuses to consider the possibility that any film based on a comic book can be good. I wanted this to be great. I truly believed that it could be. Kenneth fucking Branagh made this! Doesn’t that guy only ever hang out with Shakespearean types, drinking merlot and unearthing buried texts about Victorian manners during menopause and shit? I admittedly know nothing about him, but he just comes across as the type to be overly obsessive about making a film like this work. So what’s with the dismissal of character development, the half-baked romance subplot, the impossible-to-decipher and ultimately yawn-inducing “action” scenes, and the tragic waste of the extremely badass Idris Elba? Most of all, what is with the overall sense that this absurdly polished turd was rushed out of the gate with absolutely no consideration of actually producing a coherent and entertaining tale, as opposed to simply pedaling more weak escapist pop to the drooling masses? I saw this movie a few days ago and I can honestly remember almost nothing about it. It’s like a mediocre sneeze; it just happened. For a brief moment I thought to myself “that was a pretty mediocre sneeze” and then I completely forgot about it and went on with my day. The only good news I can muster up is that Chris Hemsworth is a good-looking dude who does a pretty good job and is occasionally very funny, Natalie Portman is still pretty (and that’s about it with her), and the Frost Giants look predictably cool. Ignore that pun, ignore the hype, ignore this movie.
Blow Out (1981)
dir: Brian De Palma
Disclaimer: Brian De Palma might be one of my all-time favorite filmmakers. He is essentially the perfect embodiment of auteur theory, even when helming such out-of-left-field oddities as Mission to Mars (2000) or obvious work-for-hire mainstream products like 1996’s Mission: Impossible. He is a man who knows his obsessions, and they include gender roles, sexual struggle, the myriad possible interpretations of truth, voyeurism, the danger and excitement of technological advancement, and most notably the concept of the double. This is the man who deconstructed the rock opera with Phantom of the Paradise (1974), perplexed and infuriated critics and audiences alike with the detested (and criminally misunderstood) The Black Dahlia (2006) and accidentally inspired an entire generation of dumbass rappers with the 1983 cautionary masterpiece Scarface. His work consistently walks the thin line between art and trash, philosophy and camp, great and ridiculous. His best films have always existed within the murky realms of the thriller and noir, saturated with moral ambiguity disguised as the self-righteous and ultimately doomed Puritanism of his characters and the undercurrent of omnipresent danger that may strike them down at any given moment. And let’s not forget all that sex. Call him a Hithcock for perverts and you’d be on to something, especially if you mean it in the positive way that my own sensibilities lead me to immediately interpret it. Blow Out is an important point in his career, although it is by no means his best film. All of the necessary elements are there, however, aided by the stellar performances of a young (and cool as shit) John Travolta and the always-welcome Nancy Allen. Thematically it plays out like a less guilt-ridden version of Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation (1974), but aesthetically De Palma’s film is more obsessive, exhibiting an exhilarating fetishistic approach to sound design, shot composition and the filmmaker’s favorite trick, the split-screen narrative. A film like this is especially interesting to watch in modern times, not only because Criterion has finally released a spectacular edition (cough buy their shit cough), but because this is a story that simply cannot take place anymore. Technology has rendered it impossible. Modern communication techniques are so advanced and persistent that to view this film is to peer into a time capsule at the existence of what essentially amount to primitive characters. Intrigue itself is harder to come by these days, which is precisely why we should consider ourselves lucky that filmmakers like De Palma still exist, ever prepared to serve it to us no matter how depraved our appetites or jaded our outlooks. His films hold up because they are rooted within our most basic drives, not concerned with our current fascinations. Obsession is timeless.
