"Were you f-cking her when I called you?" "What? No! She's *fat*." There are a lot of bridges to other recent material to be found on the surface of Snow Angels. Director David Gordon Green also helmed the ganja giggler Pineapple Express, Michael Angarano was just as blank-faced and dumb-looking as the token White Hope in The Forbidden Kingdom, Olivia Thirlby was the massive weak link in last year's best film Juno, and Sam Rockwell was just in the very Sam Rockwellian Choke. Plus, I always confuse Kate Beckinsale with Liv Tyler, if that counts. But it's thematically where the most notable bridge is crossed, bringing to mind two films from opposite ends of the quality spectrum: Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu's 21 Grams and Todd Field's Little Children.
Both are incredibly dour weepers that have essentially ensemble casts intermingling with one another in unexpected ways that will invariably end in brutal depression for the viewer, just like Snow Angels. All three of these films deal with sex, relationships, murder, tragedy and born-again Christianity, and all three are incredibly melodramatic. Shockingly, only the thoroughly mediocre Inarritu realized that his story, played straightforward and straight through, would be a laughable artificial dirge, and instead edited it into spiraling obfuscation, revealing its plot points gradually for maximum efficiency. On the flipside, Little Children was a tired and obvious suburban satire that used children overridingly like cheap ploys to force the tears, and descended into banality because its sourpuss mood set a pall from which the film never recovered. Snow Angels is a bit more realistic with its setting, but that same blanket of bitter inevitability spoils absolutely any effectiveness this feel could have brought forth, and turns the film into a monotonous waiting game, staring down your watch until The Tragedies begin occurring.
What makes this especially frustrating is that I know Gordon Green CAN do exactly the sort of downbeat lyrical realism he was aiming for. George Washington is a gorgeous and enveloping masterpiece that features a familiar plot elevated to a gorgeous glory. Snow Angels has not a single shred of anything approaching this feeling. Kate Beckinsale doesn't feel like she exists in this film, Sam Rockwell has a thankless cardboard derivation of Benicio Del Toro's 21 Grams character, and speaking of thankless, Amy Sedaris and Nicky Katt have the closest thing to interesting reality in the film, and even they get dipped in the film's dirty spittoon.
The film is wall-to-wall plodding coincidences, featuring damaged relationships all around, with a generic and forgettable teenage romance thrown into the middle, starring the unceasingly bland Angarano and the adorable but useless Thirlby. It's just as obvious and predictable as the rest of the film, but at least it's sort of pleasant, and doesn't involve anywhere NEAR as much eye-rolling. Oh yes, my poor little eyes, they have not had to sit through this much painful rolling since I got a Crystal Skull smashed over my head. Then Griffin Dunne shows up, and I realize the film can't even maintain THAT story's good will.
Goddamnit, Sam Rockwell as a lead, plus Amy Sedaris, Griffin Dunne and Nicky Katt supporting? Come on, D-double-G, how could you? How could you waste the two of them in something that isn't a brilliantly wicked black comedy? Put Tom Noonan in more than a glorified cameo and you've got a cast that is begging for a film full of dark, mocking goodness. But no, we get this wasteful, predictable, watch-shattering monotony, and there is no darkness, no goodness; That just leaves the mocking.
{Grade: 4/10 (C-) / #60 (of 77) of 2008}
Both are incredibly dour weepers that have essentially ensemble casts intermingling with one another in unexpected ways that will invariably end in brutal depression for the viewer, just like Snow Angels. All three of these films deal with sex, relationships, murder, tragedy and born-again Christianity, and all three are incredibly melodramatic. Shockingly, only the thoroughly mediocre Inarritu realized that his story, played straightforward and straight through, would be a laughable artificial dirge, and instead edited it into spiraling obfuscation, revealing its plot points gradually for maximum efficiency. On the flipside, Little Children was a tired and obvious suburban satire that used children overridingly like cheap ploys to force the tears, and descended into banality because its sourpuss mood set a pall from which the film never recovered. Snow Angels is a bit more realistic with its setting, but that same blanket of bitter inevitability spoils absolutely any effectiveness this feel could have brought forth, and turns the film into a monotonous waiting game, staring down your watch until The Tragedies begin occurring.
What makes this especially frustrating is that I know Gordon Green CAN do exactly the sort of downbeat lyrical realism he was aiming for. George Washington is a gorgeous and enveloping masterpiece that features a familiar plot elevated to a gorgeous glory. Snow Angels has not a single shred of anything approaching this feeling. Kate Beckinsale doesn't feel like she exists in this film, Sam Rockwell has a thankless cardboard derivation of Benicio Del Toro's 21 Grams character, and speaking of thankless, Amy Sedaris and Nicky Katt have the closest thing to interesting reality in the film, and even they get dipped in the film's dirty spittoon.
The film is wall-to-wall plodding coincidences, featuring damaged relationships all around, with a generic and forgettable teenage romance thrown into the middle, starring the unceasingly bland Angarano and the adorable but useless Thirlby. It's just as obvious and predictable as the rest of the film, but at least it's sort of pleasant, and doesn't involve anywhere NEAR as much eye-rolling. Oh yes, my poor little eyes, they have not had to sit through this much painful rolling since I got a Crystal Skull smashed over my head. Then Griffin Dunne shows up, and I realize the film can't even maintain THAT story's good will.
Goddamnit, Sam Rockwell as a lead, plus Amy Sedaris, Griffin Dunne and Nicky Katt supporting? Come on, D-double-G, how could you? How could you waste the two of them in something that isn't a brilliantly wicked black comedy? Put Tom Noonan in more than a glorified cameo and you've got a cast that is begging for a film full of dark, mocking goodness. But no, we get this wasteful, predictable, watch-shattering monotony, and there is no darkness, no goodness; That just leaves the mocking.
{Grade: 4/10 (C-) / #60 (of 77) of 2008}