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"When I reach for it, my hand closes on air" - Roger Ebert
Much like the fleeting sanctuaries of women made of sand that Phoenix's Freddie Quell lies with on the beach. And much like the ultimate hot air of the feet-of-clay Master Lancaster Dodd (PS Hoffman), as shiny and welcoming as a pearly gate, with nothing much inside. Freddie is a deeply wounded man (whether war or love) who is desperate for meaning in his increasingly self-destructive life. Dodd is the narcissistic doctor, desperate to validate the meaning of his medicine. The actual snake-oil of his "philosophy" or "religion" is beside the point. The film is clever to not spend much time examining the empty rhetoric. The point is control and catharsis. Dodd is attempting to control reality through his own definition of it, fortified by the belief of disciples. The film exposes a void, a spiritual emptiness, the search and manipulation of meaning, and finally, the rejection of the possibility of an absolute ANSWER, which is the counterfeit currency of every guru. The audience is similarly denied, and this empty fist full of hot air is exactly the result.
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Wes Anderson is a master of melancholic whimsy. All of his films drip with a raw sweetness and wild sorrow. He's smart enough not to wallow, but instead triumph in a self-conscious absurdity. To quote Hitchcock, these aren't slice of life films, they're slice of cake films, except the cake usually ends up on everyone's faces. And, of course, everyone is terribly deadpan about it.
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Tarantino will never grow up, and we just have to get used to that. However, it's always undeniable that he has an uncanny talent to make rollicking, exuberantly entertaining films, and this is one of the best of his recent revenge fantasies. Along with his commitment to gorgeous film photography, he evokes some incredible performances from his actors (especially Samuel Jackson's bitter and twisted Amos Rucker-type Stephen, named after Fetchit, I presume) and handles each scene's tension with superb control. As long as you stay away from QT's interviews, you probably won't even know what an asshole he is.
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A dark and flinchless tale of American political and business cynicism. Due to poor marketing, the film confused audiences expecting action (the shotgun on the poster didn't help) or humor (it's too dark to laugh at), or the stylistic flatulence of a sub-Tarantino knock off (ala Ritchie, Carnahan, Limon, or any other faceless flasher). Instead, we get something closer to 70s Lumet, with black granite realism, dialogue-rich actor-driven set pieces, and a brutal and illusion-shattering attitude toward American morality. A brilliant film, with impeccable performances.
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Something of a modern day Fellini, this fascinating, perplexing film is exactly what great cinema should be. Personal and surreal, with identity and desire the "engines" of the title, the film is a celebration of art - reflective and impulsive. An unforgettable emetic for bellies stuffed with studio formula.
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Keeping score, that's one star for Riva, one star for Trintignant, and one star for Haneke's hubris in keeping his post-aesthetic fans fooled. The acting is excellent, even Hubbert (as always) - tour de forces all around. Meanwhile, Haneke's hyperseptic, cold and clinically cruel tone adds nothing but formaldehyde. Haneke has already admitted that the title is meant to be ironic, revealing that rather than having no sense of humor (as he's been accused), he has a rather poor one.
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I haven't read the book (upfront disclosure). That may explain why I find the philisophical themes of the film about as profound as a Deepak Chopra bag of fortune cookies. More importantly - who cares, in a film as lusciously filmed as this one? Ang Lee translates the transcendence non-verbally in a far more satisfying way than the available script. Lee still gets crap jokes about his Shrek-on-steroids "Hulk" and stuff about Brokeback Dragons, but he consistently proves himself to be one of the most visionary directors working today. I'm hoping this will mark his second Oscar, and I hope Affleck takes notes.
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As far as neurotic comedies go, this is much better than most of the dry festival dysfunctions that have become ubiquitous. It's also better than something as stunted as "Little Miss Sunshine", even if it follows more or less the same formula. Credit must be given to director David O. Russell, slowly finding his voice among the "eccentrics" (his peers PT and Wes Anderson, Charles Kaufman, Alexander Payne, etc), but still not quite a distinct, definitive voice yet. Perhaps more credit needs to go to the awesome Miss Lawrence, a natural star, and the spunky spirit that elevates the film. My glib comparison would be "Garden State" meets "Dirty Dancing". (I'd feel worse about that if the film wasn't so glib.)
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The gap in critical appreciation between this film and the other LOTR films is baffling and inexplicable. I was one who was apprehensive over Peter Jackson's decision to inflate the modest novel with ephemeral material, and so I was expecting something like the extended cut of "Return of the King", a little corny and slightly bloated. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised that what we got was simply another Peter Jackson LOTR film, as charming, visually dazzling, and rousing as the previous films. If the film has any flaw at all, it's in the fact that (partially because of the extra material) the story follows the same predictable formula of the superior "Fellowship", which is an ironic complaint as this was the original entry to begin with. Oh, and Fuck PETA. I'm sure there's some puppy-mill dogs for them to strangle that will keep their minds off of this quality fantasy production.
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Spielberg isn't the most subtle director, and Kushner is pretty far from a subtle writer. In that sense, it's surprising they've made a relatively sober movie, even as it's still quite presumptuous and bathetic. John Williams still manages to infuse artificial dignity with his flugelhorns, and I have to admit to not finding Day-Lewis as revelatory as many of his other performances. His Lincoln turns shrill when passionate, and frankly he reminds me of a relevent Ben Stiller sketch ridiculing exactly this kind of pomposity. The film remains fascinating, precisely, I think, for its focus on procedure and the complicated politics of the day.
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Sean D. on 3/13/13 at 06:33 PM
It felt at times like an essay where the author beats you over the head with an obvious argument. That said, I absolutely, wholeheartedly loved this movie.
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Janson Jinnistan on 3/13/13 at 07:29 PM
I wouldn't call it "obvious", but I had less trouble finding the meaningful themes than so many of its critics who insist it's empty. I think Andrew O'Heier (at Salon) basically accused anyone who thought it meant "something" of lying.
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