This film is a beautiful presentation of European feminism, which, unlike its American counterpart, is about exploring and celebrating femininity rather than just kicking men in the balls. It is also a film that, judging by the other user comments, appeals to men just as strongly as to women. Literary, beautifully filmed and emotionally gripping, "Antonia's Line" is (pardon the cliche) a film unlike any other.
Reviews
9 Reviews
Miller's Crossing
(1990)
masterpiece
18 March 2001
In my modest opinion, this film is the Coen's greatest achievement to date, even greater than Fargo. I was happy to see so many recent entries on this page, because that means something I predicted long ago is coming true: film buffs are finally "discovering" Miller's Crossing, an underground masterpiece that has dwelt in obscurity for ten years.
The central motif of the hat, and Johnny Caspar's preoccupation with the altitude thereof, brings to mind another underrated masterpiece, Drugstore Cowboy. The complex Jungian symbolism of forests, doors and especially hats is my favorite aspect of the film.
The only criticism I've heard of this film (and I think it's B.S.) has to do with the "over-acting"--a criticism that has been directed at more than one Coen film. Admittedly, Coen screenplays read more like novels than movie scripts and are not always actor-friendly. Gabriel Byrne, who appears in all but two scenes, does a great job playing an extremely complicated character. Tom Reagan is a smart guy surrounded by morons, and exists in a scenario where only muscle counts and brains don't. And he hates it. And he hates himself because he knows he's all brains and no heart. He tries to redeem himself through a selfless devotion to Leo, whom he hates. All this makes for an immensely challenging part, and the film could easily have fallen apart with a lesser actor than Gabriel Byrne playing the lead.
But the acting is great from top to bottom: Marcia Gay Harden (in her big screen debut) as the hard-boiled moll; Jon Polito as the maniacal Johnny Caspar; Steve Buscemi as the hop-addicted Mink; J.E. Freeman, who is such a marvellous screen villain you have to wonder why he's still toiling in obscurity; and Albert Finney, an actor who embodies the term "screen presence." But the Grand Prix goes to John Turturro, who carries the most powerful scene in the movie: when Tom takes Bernie out to Miller's Crossing to "whack" him.
Another criticism frequently levelled against the Coens is that they are preoccupied with "scenes" and don't focus enough on plot coherence. This too is an invalid criticism, as far as I'm concerned. Some people are irritated by a film that you have to watch a couple times to fully understand, but that's precisely the kind of film that I love, and that's why I love Miller's Crossing so much. Every time I see it I pick up on something that I didn't catch before.
Speaking of "scenes", the "Danny Boy" scene is the best. The second best is the following scene, where Tom and Terry walk through a hallway lined with goons. The third is the police raid on the Sons of Erin Club, in which Leo takes on the entire police force.
I'll resist the temptation to call Miller's Crossing "The Greatest Film of All Time"--because who has the right to say that? But I must say that it is my favorite film of all time.
The central motif of the hat, and Johnny Caspar's preoccupation with the altitude thereof, brings to mind another underrated masterpiece, Drugstore Cowboy. The complex Jungian symbolism of forests, doors and especially hats is my favorite aspect of the film.
The only criticism I've heard of this film (and I think it's B.S.) has to do with the "over-acting"--a criticism that has been directed at more than one Coen film. Admittedly, Coen screenplays read more like novels than movie scripts and are not always actor-friendly. Gabriel Byrne, who appears in all but two scenes, does a great job playing an extremely complicated character. Tom Reagan is a smart guy surrounded by morons, and exists in a scenario where only muscle counts and brains don't. And he hates it. And he hates himself because he knows he's all brains and no heart. He tries to redeem himself through a selfless devotion to Leo, whom he hates. All this makes for an immensely challenging part, and the film could easily have fallen apart with a lesser actor than Gabriel Byrne playing the lead.
But the acting is great from top to bottom: Marcia Gay Harden (in her big screen debut) as the hard-boiled moll; Jon Polito as the maniacal Johnny Caspar; Steve Buscemi as the hop-addicted Mink; J.E. Freeman, who is such a marvellous screen villain you have to wonder why he's still toiling in obscurity; and Albert Finney, an actor who embodies the term "screen presence." But the Grand Prix goes to John Turturro, who carries the most powerful scene in the movie: when Tom takes Bernie out to Miller's Crossing to "whack" him.
Another criticism frequently levelled against the Coens is that they are preoccupied with "scenes" and don't focus enough on plot coherence. This too is an invalid criticism, as far as I'm concerned. Some people are irritated by a film that you have to watch a couple times to fully understand, but that's precisely the kind of film that I love, and that's why I love Miller's Crossing so much. Every time I see it I pick up on something that I didn't catch before.
Speaking of "scenes", the "Danny Boy" scene is the best. The second best is the following scene, where Tom and Terry walk through a hallway lined with goons. The third is the police raid on the Sons of Erin Club, in which Leo takes on the entire police force.
I'll resist the temptation to call Miller's Crossing "The Greatest Film of All Time"--because who has the right to say that? But I must say that it is my favorite film of all time.
Drugstore Cowboy
(1989)
an unregarded masterpiece
20 January 2001
This is a period picture that takes place in 1971, but there are no references to Vietnam, the flower power movement, Kent State or any other issues or events of the day. This is because the characters have nothing to do with that world. Bob's thoughts revolve around drugstores like planets around the sun. His family of dope thieves lives in almost total isolation. Even junkies who come to do business are admitted to their home with reluctance and then rudely sent on their way. Their only contact with the "other" world is its drugstores and its cops. They live in a world not ruled by the authorities, but by "the dark forces that lie hidden beneath the surface, the ones that some people call superstitions: howling banshees, black cats, hats on beds, dogs, the evil eye..." In his world, Bob's lunatic logic makes perfect sense and serves him as a guide for living better than any "sane" worldview.
When the crew goes "crossroading" to the tune of "the Israelites" we realize that they, too, are like children of a different god; wanderers whose only contact with others is hostile confrontation. They are either "attacking" drug stores or being attacked by ball-breaking cops.
Kelly Lynch, who plays Diane, said in an interview that, "The first take was terrible and Matt (Dillon) said he wouldn't support the film." It is not surprising that a film this ambitious should run into some snags. A great film like "DC" is a tightrope act. The best scenes in the film are also the riskiest; they would have fallen apart in the hands of lesser actors.
If you like the film you might get a kick out of the autobiographical novel on which it is based, by James Fogle, the original drugstore cowboy. At the time of the film's release (1989) Fogle had spent "thirty-five of his fifty-three years in prison on drug-related charges." I wonder what ever became of him.
When the crew goes "crossroading" to the tune of "the Israelites" we realize that they, too, are like children of a different god; wanderers whose only contact with others is hostile confrontation. They are either "attacking" drug stores or being attacked by ball-breaking cops.
Kelly Lynch, who plays Diane, said in an interview that, "The first take was terrible and Matt (Dillon) said he wouldn't support the film." It is not surprising that a film this ambitious should run into some snags. A great film like "DC" is a tightrope act. The best scenes in the film are also the riskiest; they would have fallen apart in the hands of lesser actors.
If you like the film you might get a kick out of the autobiographical novel on which it is based, by James Fogle, the original drugstore cowboy. At the time of the film's release (1989) Fogle had spent "thirty-five of his fifty-three years in prison on drug-related charges." I wonder what ever became of him.
The Devil's Own
(1997)
It's not an American stoory, it's an Oirish oon!
20 July 2000
Warning: Spoilers
A large part of Brad Pitt's genius as a movie star is his ability to pick scripts. "The Devil's Own" certainly indicates a lapse in judgment, but to a Hollywood tough guy, an IRA role is irresistible. You get a leather jacket, a ski mask, a machine gun and a cool accent. The Ulster accent is, as every movie star knows, very easy to master: just randomly scramble your vowel sounds, say "fook's seek" frequently--and you're Oirish!
But far more laughable than the accents are the action scenes, which are so badly choreographed and edited, it's hard to believe the film is a Hollywood product. First there is Sean and Frankie's shootout with "half the fookin' army," which they win. Then they escape because the British forget to watch the back door. Also, there is the mysterious appearance of a vast forest in the middle of downtown Belfast, into which IRA terrorists can easily escape when cornered. Next there is the shootout with Billy Burke, in which Frankie somehow manages to fire three rounds from a double-barrelled shotgun (taking out a sniper who, oddly enough, falls forward from the impact of a shot in the chest), retrieves his pistol and fires the same shot twice--hitting Billy Burke, who for some reason counted to ten before lunging for his own gun.
The biggest mistake was in casting Harrison Ford, a lead man who commands $20,000,000 per film, and putting him in a supporting role, which of course had to be rewritten and elevated to a co-lead. The result: instead of a film about an IRA terrorist who comes to the States to buy munitions (which is a good precept), we get a film about a New York cop who's got an IRA terrorist living in his basement. Anyone who initially proposed such a story to the studio would have been turned down, and that would have been fortunate for all involved.
In fairness to Pitt, he did try to walk away from the project, and in order to save face, ridiculed the movie before it hit the theaters, which suggests that he had more sense than anyone else on the set.
But far more laughable than the accents are the action scenes, which are so badly choreographed and edited, it's hard to believe the film is a Hollywood product. First there is Sean and Frankie's shootout with "half the fookin' army," which they win. Then they escape because the British forget to watch the back door. Also, there is the mysterious appearance of a vast forest in the middle of downtown Belfast, into which IRA terrorists can easily escape when cornered. Next there is the shootout with Billy Burke, in which Frankie somehow manages to fire three rounds from a double-barrelled shotgun (taking out a sniper who, oddly enough, falls forward from the impact of a shot in the chest), retrieves his pistol and fires the same shot twice--hitting Billy Burke, who for some reason counted to ten before lunging for his own gun.
The biggest mistake was in casting Harrison Ford, a lead man who commands $20,000,000 per film, and putting him in a supporting role, which of course had to be rewritten and elevated to a co-lead. The result: instead of a film about an IRA terrorist who comes to the States to buy munitions (which is a good precept), we get a film about a New York cop who's got an IRA terrorist living in his basement. Anyone who initially proposed such a story to the studio would have been turned down, and that would have been fortunate for all involved.
In fairness to Pitt, he did try to walk away from the project, and in order to save face, ridiculed the movie before it hit the theaters, which suggests that he had more sense than anyone else on the set.
There's Something About Mary
(1998)
why so funny?
13 July 2000
Entertainers can EITHER be funny OR be Politically Correct. They cannot be both. The more a film acquiesces to bourgeois conventions, good taste and all that junk, the less amusing it is. It was the Farrely brothers flagrant disregard for political correctness that made this the funniest movie of the decade.In other words, what made this film so hilarious to some of us was precisely what made it so odious to others. Imagine how dull the film would have been if the makers had a more refined social conscience: no laughs at the expense of dogs, retards or nice guys. Just "Friends" jokes. "Friends" is a good example, come to think of it, of the sort of humor that offends no one: it makes you giggle a little, that's all. But for a joke to be rip-roaringly funny, it has to have a target. As an illustration: When Dillon and Diaz have their notorious "I-play-with-retards" dialogue, it is ten times funnier if there are Retard Awareness activists outside picketing the theater. This I know from experience.
The Trial
(1962)
an underrated director's underrated adaptation of an underrated novel
6 June 2000
Orson Welles said that "The Trial" was the most autobiographical of all his films. Welles went to Hollywood as a 24-year-old whiz kid, landed and unprecedented contract with RKO films which gave him full artistic freedom--a privilege then virtually unknown to Hollywood directors. This, of course, made Welles the object of envy and ill-wishing. To make matters worse, his first film was the greatest film of the era. This upstart could not be tolerated. "Citizen Kane" was pronounced a failure before it was even completed and Welles was considered anathema in Hollywood circles almost until the end of his life. His fortune went from bad to worse until he found himself forced to the conclusion that he was the object of a conspiracy.
It is not surprising, then, that when the Salkind brothers showed him a list of literary classics that he might adapt for the silver screen, Welles chose Kafka's "The Trial."
Welles was not, of course, the victim of an organized conspiracy. He was merely an eccentric who happened to live in a century that enforced conformity with an iron fist. Joseph K. was not specifically singled out for persecution either. K. never found out what he was arrested for. But that does not matter. It was the crime committed after his arrest that earned him the death sentence. That crime was...maintaining his innocence! My own theory is that that is why K. was arrested in the first place: the court had learned that, "on such-and-such a date, one Joseph K. of Prague had claimed to be innocent..."
Eventually K., like Orson Welles, confessed that he was guilty--of what he did not know. He only knew that he must be guilty of something to merit such treatment.
Novels do not readily translate to the screen. Significant changes in plot, chronology and style are usually necessary. It is fascinating to observe how easily Welles was able to adapt the novel to the screen. Welles basically lets Kafka tell the story, while he provides the appropriate visuals.
Kafka's work represents the 20th Century's most important body of literature. Years before it had become a concrete reality, Kafka described a culture that was completely at the mercy of earthly authority, because it had no God. At the time of their writing, his harrowing stories of inscrutable courts and hellish death camps seemed impossibly unrealistic. But had Kafka not died young, he would have lived to perish in the Nazi camps, as his three sisters did.
Welles' "The Trial" was a box office failure in 1963, as was Kyle MacLachlan's 1993 remake (which, significantly, hit the theaters right around the time of the Branch Davidian massacre--a story Kafka could have written himself). But this is only natural. The average theater-goer is quite comfortable with authority, and actually *understands* the lunatic logic of lawyers and bureaucrats. So how could they understand Kafka? Or Welles.
It is not surprising, then, that when the Salkind brothers showed him a list of literary classics that he might adapt for the silver screen, Welles chose Kafka's "The Trial."
Welles was not, of course, the victim of an organized conspiracy. He was merely an eccentric who happened to live in a century that enforced conformity with an iron fist. Joseph K. was not specifically singled out for persecution either. K. never found out what he was arrested for. But that does not matter. It was the crime committed after his arrest that earned him the death sentence. That crime was...maintaining his innocence! My own theory is that that is why K. was arrested in the first place: the court had learned that, "on such-and-such a date, one Joseph K. of Prague had claimed to be innocent..."
Eventually K., like Orson Welles, confessed that he was guilty--of what he did not know. He only knew that he must be guilty of something to merit such treatment.
Novels do not readily translate to the screen. Significant changes in plot, chronology and style are usually necessary. It is fascinating to observe how easily Welles was able to adapt the novel to the screen. Welles basically lets Kafka tell the story, while he provides the appropriate visuals.
Kafka's work represents the 20th Century's most important body of literature. Years before it had become a concrete reality, Kafka described a culture that was completely at the mercy of earthly authority, because it had no God. At the time of their writing, his harrowing stories of inscrutable courts and hellish death camps seemed impossibly unrealistic. But had Kafka not died young, he would have lived to perish in the Nazi camps, as his three sisters did.
Welles' "The Trial" was a box office failure in 1963, as was Kyle MacLachlan's 1993 remake (which, significantly, hit the theaters right around the time of the Branch Davidian massacre--a story Kafka could have written himself). But this is only natural. The average theater-goer is quite comfortable with authority, and actually *understands* the lunatic logic of lawyers and bureaucrats. So how could they understand Kafka? Or Welles.
In the Company of Men
(1997)
survival-of-the-meanest
9 May 2000
This movie is cruel and mean-spirited--and rightly so, for it takes place in Corporate America, where survival-of-the-meanest is the rule. A tyrant rules by consent of the governed, and characters like Chad and the weaklings (like Howard and the black intern) who make a Chad possible are splendid representatives of the sort of people who are produced by a materialistic worldview. And then there is Christine; kind, innocent and vulnerable. She doesn't belong in that world.
Braveheart
(1995)
Apologia "Braveheart"
22 April 2000
It baffled me, at first, to discover that there were actually people who didn't like this film. How could anyone resist being swept away by this story? Well, I realize now, you can't make everyone happy, because there will always be people who are determined not to let you make them happy.
When "Braveheart" hit the theaters in 1995, it was inevitable that Scots and Irish would love it, and the English would hate it. English reviews of this film were hysterically shrill. Much was made of the "historical inaccuracies," but what did they expect--a $70 million documentary? Besides, the historical records of William Wallace and Robert the Bruce are so sparse and uncertain, historians and filmmakers alike are free to take great liberties in reconstructing the story just about any way they see fit. The indignation that the English feel when watching this film is probably similar to what the Scottish, Irish and Welsh feel when they study history and realize that the saga of their people has been nothing but a centuries-long struggle against English oppression. The U.S. senate has issued official apologies to blacks, Indians, Hawaiians and even the Japanese. A similar gesture from the Queen or the House of Lords might allay a lot of bad feelings.
In America the film was accorded the same treatment as any other independent film. It received a lot of smug reviews about "cute guys in kilts" and was soundly beaten at the box office by the insipid "Independence Day." Most reviewers are industry toadies who consider it a breach of professional protocol to say anything nice about an Indie. Anyhow, "Braveheart" won a half-a-dozen Academy Awards, while "Independence Day" was forgotten as soon as the advertising campaign ended.
There is also the bias against a Hollywood stud-muffin having the audacity to direct and star in his own film. What right does Mr. Lethal Weapon have trying to establish himself as a serious artist? But the fact is--as many people have said before--Gibson was the perfect man to direct this film. How would "Braveheart" have turned out in the hands of, say, Scorceses or Spielberg? (As a really funny mental exercise, try and imagine Tarantino doing this film. "I'm gonna get medieval on your arse!")
And then there were the feminists who denounced the film for being Testosteronally Challenged.
One remarkable thing about "Braveheart" is how little dialogue there is in this 3-hour film. The screenplay available on the Net is only 13 pages long! To tell a fairly complex tale in so few words is just good writing by Randall Wallace. But all some people can talk about is how unrealistic Wallace's portrayal of his namesake is. But that's the whole idea: "Braveheart" isn't realistic; it's idealistic.
And what's wrong with that?
When "Braveheart" hit the theaters in 1995, it was inevitable that Scots and Irish would love it, and the English would hate it. English reviews of this film were hysterically shrill. Much was made of the "historical inaccuracies," but what did they expect--a $70 million documentary? Besides, the historical records of William Wallace and Robert the Bruce are so sparse and uncertain, historians and filmmakers alike are free to take great liberties in reconstructing the story just about any way they see fit. The indignation that the English feel when watching this film is probably similar to what the Scottish, Irish and Welsh feel when they study history and realize that the saga of their people has been nothing but a centuries-long struggle against English oppression. The U.S. senate has issued official apologies to blacks, Indians, Hawaiians and even the Japanese. A similar gesture from the Queen or the House of Lords might allay a lot of bad feelings.
In America the film was accorded the same treatment as any other independent film. It received a lot of smug reviews about "cute guys in kilts" and was soundly beaten at the box office by the insipid "Independence Day." Most reviewers are industry toadies who consider it a breach of professional protocol to say anything nice about an Indie. Anyhow, "Braveheart" won a half-a-dozen Academy Awards, while "Independence Day" was forgotten as soon as the advertising campaign ended.
There is also the bias against a Hollywood stud-muffin having the audacity to direct and star in his own film. What right does Mr. Lethal Weapon have trying to establish himself as a serious artist? But the fact is--as many people have said before--Gibson was the perfect man to direct this film. How would "Braveheart" have turned out in the hands of, say, Scorceses or Spielberg? (As a really funny mental exercise, try and imagine Tarantino doing this film. "I'm gonna get medieval on your arse!")
And then there were the feminists who denounced the film for being Testosteronally Challenged.
One remarkable thing about "Braveheart" is how little dialogue there is in this 3-hour film. The screenplay available on the Net is only 13 pages long! To tell a fairly complex tale in so few words is just good writing by Randall Wallace. But all some people can talk about is how unrealistic Wallace's portrayal of his namesake is. But that's the whole idea: "Braveheart" isn't realistic; it's idealistic.
And what's wrong with that?
Children of a Lesser God
(1986)
Don't be afraid to use subtitles
19 April 2000
Everyone agrees that the acting, directing and photography In Children of a Lesser God was superb. One fatal flaw prevented it from being one of the best big-screen love stories ever: it is that we understand Sarah's signing through James' convenient habit of repeating aloud everything she says.
This may work (and is, of course, absolutely necessary on the stage) but in the film it is often awkward and strained. More importantly, the dynamic between Sarah's silence and James' sound is the central element of the story. The screen being a visual medium, this could have been developed powerfully through subtitles. The interplay between Matlin's eloquent signing and Hurt's resonant voice would have been a stunning cinematic effect. The silver screen could have told the story better than the stage because it allows the artists to tell the story of two characters with different modes of communication, without having to restrict itself to one mode only.
The main disadvantage of this strategy would have been commercial. American audiences don't like subtitles. Thus it would have gotten bad reviews and performed poorly at the box office--but would have been spectacular as art, and possibly cleaned up at the Academy Awards.
From an artistic perspective, the disadvantage would have been our need to glance at subtitles, which would distract us somewhat from the fluent signing and facial histrionics that earned Matlin an Academy Award. But this deficit would be minimized by the fact that in many exchanges, subtitles were not necessary, and Hurt's vocal translation would have been acceptable in others.
I think the story would have been far more convincing if Sarah had been allowed to speak for herself.
This may work (and is, of course, absolutely necessary on the stage) but in the film it is often awkward and strained. More importantly, the dynamic between Sarah's silence and James' sound is the central element of the story. The screen being a visual medium, this could have been developed powerfully through subtitles. The interplay between Matlin's eloquent signing and Hurt's resonant voice would have been a stunning cinematic effect. The silver screen could have told the story better than the stage because it allows the artists to tell the story of two characters with different modes of communication, without having to restrict itself to one mode only.
The main disadvantage of this strategy would have been commercial. American audiences don't like subtitles. Thus it would have gotten bad reviews and performed poorly at the box office--but would have been spectacular as art, and possibly cleaned up at the Academy Awards.
From an artistic perspective, the disadvantage would have been our need to glance at subtitles, which would distract us somewhat from the fluent signing and facial histrionics that earned Matlin an Academy Award. But this deficit would be minimized by the fact that in many exchanges, subtitles were not necessary, and Hurt's vocal translation would have been acceptable in others.
I think the story would have been far more convincing if Sarah had been allowed to speak for herself.
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