Reviews

This odd, offbeat film is a true cultural artifact of its time -- the turbulent, disorienting, angst drenched brief period of transition from the exuberant, flowery, naive 60s to the cold, crass, furiously superficial 70s. Tough times, emotionally and psychologically, for anyone who was paying any kind of attention to the rapid evaporation of that quaint, doomed-from-its-birth concept popularly advertised as "The American Dream." In other words, this weird movie is an artified expression of that outrageously surreal absurdity that we know and fear as Reality. Heavy, man.

Sure, Dustin Hoffman is thoroughly captivating, radiating his signature brand of endearingly charming neurosis as Georgie Solloway, a Dylanesque Folk/Pop Singer/Songwriter Star; a sort of hippiefied, odder, more troubled Woody Allen vibe. New York City just seemed to be rife with these kind of semi-tragic self absorbed antihero types whose only superpower is blunt unfiltered honesty. Trainfulls of 'em zigzagging across town and zipping up and down the island, like motorized armadas of nervous nutty nebbishy nobodys. Except Georgie is a Somebody.

And then he meets his perfect match in the delightfully distracted, lovely lady Allison played brilliantly by Barbara Harris. Allison's a singer/actress, of course, who hasn't had a linear (boring) thought in probably 1,000 years. She's a force of nature in a miniskirt, if nature lives in a 5 story walkup on the Lower West Side. Georgie and Allison chat aimiably about death and tedious trivialities, as well as about the weight of their own individual private universes. It's often fascinating conversation and almost just as often mind numbing, in a strangely delicate, sweet way.

He trusts his psychoanalyst/therapist of 7+ years, played by the always solid and impressive Jack Warden, who happens to be an accent hopping Sigmund Freud wannabe, at least in the clouded, warped eyes and mind of poor struggling Georgie. It's a fun conceit, and Georgie even hallucinates his doctor suddenly breaking out in a musical number that has him pleasantly exclaiming just how sick he is of listening to Georgie's neverending tales of woe. It's very funny.

Georgie's frequent suicide fantasies are sprung on us with little or no warning, the cummulative effect of which leaves us nearly indifferent to the prospect that he may actually go through with it soon enough. It's a genuinely peculiar emotional limbo that we're placed in by all the wild, wacky, frantic shennanigans, one that doesn't fully reveal its profound psychological impact till well after the end credits have run. Perhaps days later.

In fact, the ending is so confidently content to leave us unsure of just what the holy heck we've been gawking at for the past 108 minutes, it all ultimately actually seems to somehow make sense. Somehow. Sort of... Don't think about it too much, it'll only drive ya nuts.

There's an old cliché often repeated when people are discussing the late 60s and early 70s which declares that if you can remember it then you weren't really there, "there" being a figurative term for the mental space occupied by the drugged, stoned, tuned in dropped out generation of free loving, free thinking hippies, protesters, radicals, and assorted social misfits who were aggressively or passively challenging traditional norms of thought and behavior. If you were sober enough to retain clear, coherent, intelligible recollections of events, well, you obviously didn't participate enough to qualify as a valid spokesperson for the counterculture. Talk about a paradox.

And this is the guiding principle by which this film negotiates a much hyped and mythologized time in American history, when concepts such as reality and truth were being tested in new and novel and often fashionable ways. The hippest, grooviest, most out their mind thinkers were grasping at the most ephemeral, fleeting wisps of rationality in their attempts to contrive a more genuine, real ethos than the shallow materialistic one espoused by their disingenuous, hypocritical parents. Younger people were very aggressively and creatively testing the bounds and the integrity of mainstream society, much to the dismay and terror of older folks. It was a very intense, weird, wild time psychologically, and the profound disruptions to the social consciousness were being reflected in challenging and disturbing new forms of art.

Performance Art today is understood to mean any human behavior which might attract other people's attention and perhaps confuses or threatens them but is actually just a theatrical stunt; like Jack Ass but without the actual violent kicks to the groin. But in the 60s performance art more often meant creative acts which included the audience or which benignly challenged them to engage with the action of the performance. It was an exciting, fun, sometimes scary method for artists to directly connect with an audience, often in unexpected ways such as improvised dancing and singing, or more dramatically with moments of seemingly real drama, such as an actor planted in the audience disrupting the proceedings with unusual or inappropriate behavior. The action was being brought directly to the audience intimately and personally. All barriers between the artists and the audience were being torn down in a symbolic pantomime of the radical changes of which they were dreaming for the larger society.

Likewise, cinema in the 60s into the 70s experienced a phase of unprecedented freedom, experimentation and variety, and the general public were surprisingly receptive to so many of the odd, offbeat, confrontational films. Think about Easy Rider where the protagonists exist on the margins of normal mainstream society and whose hedonistic, self indulgent but benign behavior is extremely threatening to the straight society. The two modern day cowboys weren't living for anyone else but themselves, but their unconventional identities marked them as soldiers on the front lines of the generational war.

In the archly mythical Western films of the 40s and 50s the brave, valiant heroes always prevailed, but in the new age of insidious conformity they are shotgunned to death in a sudden act of utter depravity. The immaculate, pure America so passionately championed in the pages of countless history and story books was now seen to be the home of so much grotesquely repulsive ignorance. The USA was less a melting pot of disparate cultures peaceably coexisting and more so a scorching cauldron of seething bigotry, racism, misogyny and paranoia.

All this is reflected—obliquely and stylistically—in Inherent Vice, and especially in Joaquin Phoenix's layered and nuanced performance. His undeniably fascinating and sometimes frustrating portrayal of a man unwittingly caught in the fierce pincers of colliding social forces very effectively conveys the intense sense of doubt and uncertainty which pulsed just beneath the surface of everyday life. If the nightly news broadcast wasn't terrifying you in near real time with graphic images of the horrific carnage in Viet Nam half a world away then perhaps the recurring spectacle of cities in flames as disenfranchised, oppressed, enraged citizens rioted, maybe in your own town, just down the street; perhaps that kept you second guessing everything you ever learned and everything your leaders were telling you? The revolution was occurring on all fronts, externally and internally.

These are the psychic forces which are acting upon director P. T. Anderson as he labors to elicit from his audience a response possibly similar to that experienced by someone under the influence of an illicit substance, as though his cinematic creation—his oddly compelling visuals and offbeat, syncopated narrative—are themselves hallucinogenic, narcotic agents. He wants to lull us into a sympathetic state of deep, profound uncertainty where we then might hopefully, possibly experience something not unlike a mind blowing revelation about the true nature of reality. That's the grand, nearly impossible mission of this film, and in an often impressive and entertaining way it succeeds. There are so many moments in this wonderful film which exist as entirely abstract, ineffable questions brushing up against the dark mysteries lying at the weird, wild heart of our ever bewildering reality. Inherent Vice is a real head trip, man.

Only because I think Jack Lemmon was one of the finest comedic actors to ever appear in films or on stage does this otherwise angry, depressing movie manage to be a little bit entertaining. The grim and hostile tone of the film pushes it out of the realm of farce into the much less comical arena of social realism. The ever tightening circle of doom into which the hapless couple are ensnared is relieved only partially by Jack's masterful performance. His unequaled expertise in portraying an otherwise capable man under extreme duress keeps this bleak, heavy production lurching along.

I watched this one immediately after enjoying The Odd Couple on TCM and the drop off in quality is quite precipitous, though to be fair few films measure up to the transcendent heights which that earlier masterpiece attains. Maybe it's also unfair to be comparing this dour film to that hysterical gem, this one apparently is not an actual comedy, no, not at all. It's more a cinematic examination of the deepening psychosis afflicting contemporary society; a clinical dissection of the unraveling American dream. But oddly, it seems intent on trying to convince me that it's really a preposterous, wacky comedy.

The secret of comedy is timing, but unfortunately this misguided flick is written, directed and edited with a very poor sense of rhythm, comedic or otherwise. It's clunky and spastic. The beats which set up its gags and jokes are emphatically overstated and melodramatic, as though the real joke is on me for expecting a bigger, funnier punchline. And Sandy Dennis' character is so relentlessly shrill and tedious. But Jack is worth watching.

It's a somewhat watchable film only for Matt Damon's above average understated performance and Robin Williams' usual quality work, but the emotionally manipulative story is just too overwrought and self indulgent to warrant my admiration.

A mathematical super-genius who chooses to clean toilets is such a nearly impossible, outlandish premise, but we're expected to swallow it hook line and sinker. Am I supposed to relate to the poor misunderstood prodigy with the humble, blue collar heritage? This is just a typical Hollywood Cinderella fantasy relocated to Academia with some heartrending pablum tossed in for the ladies. Delusional, nonsensical melodrama that deigns to present itself as insightful and profound, but it really isn't. It's mostly contrived and tedious.

Everyone who has found deep fault with Prometheus has completely misread the film. You see, so many people who are disappointed & disgusted with the film are simply oblivious to all the clues, hints, & instructions provided by Ridley on how to perceive his film. Mr. Scott offers clear & rational reasons for the often illogical, sometimes idiotic behavior of the film's characters, but these reasons are concealed, disguised or subtly implied; they are not blatantly stated. You must follow the dialog very, very precisely and you must also consider some other sources to fully appreciate the film's remarkably efficient & elegant & profound beauty. The belligerent naysayers will undoubtedly persist in their reckless declarations that Prometheus is a failure convinced that their own failure to decipher the film's mysteries is unquestionably a fault of the film itself and certainly not an indication of their own apparent intellectual limitations, right? Wrong!

The rabid detractors apparently have little if any patience for the sort of autonomous thought that is required to unravel this intricate cinematic knot that Ridley Scott has artfully, expertly, lovingly crafted for true fans of intelligent, worthwhile Science Fiction. Nearly every single alleged logical error that I've read about or have seen being meticulously enumerated by an agitated, self righteous Youtube chatter head is actually perfectly well explained either within the film itself or by various collateral sources, such as the original Alien film or even on the fake Weyland Corporation website. That's right, there exists an actual, real phony website on this same internet that you're now using that's directly associated with the film, and would you believe it, there's actually valuable information to be found there to assist you in your deductive pursuit of the film's truths! But, unfortunately for all the lazy, pampered, meta-intellectuals, even on the mock website the answers are not in plain sight or in simple English. No, you're required to do what is technically referred to as "thinking for yourself" - Intuitive thinking. Spontaneous thinking. Unassisted, full blown creative thinking. I know what you're thinking: "How dare Ridley Scott expect me to think!!"

So there you have it in black and white: nearly everyone is WRONG about this film. There is contained within this seemingly inane monster flick a genuinely sensitive & intelligent & artful cinematic gem, but, alas, you must mentally work for it. And more importantly, there's a very good reason why Ridley is asking - no, demanding - that we all exert ourselves mentally in order to fully experience the buried treasures of his latest cinematic creation...

The individual elements of this film are all superior. The cinematography is absolutely spectacular and profoundly effective at conveying the complex, subtle and nebulous themes which the film explores. The CGI effects and backgrounds are superbly integrated into the texture of the live action, and the stunning vistas are draw droppingly exquisite, many of which are actual natural phenomenon. The acting is all above average, with Noomi Rapace delivering a genuinely compelling rendition of the strong but conflicted female lead, a signature Ridley Scott character. People may fault her curiously muddled accent, but hey, in the future everyone's accents will be mixed and mutated, won't they? Michael Fassbender as a highly sophisticated android is riveting. He expertly captures the essence of what is both enthralling and terrifying about the notion of manufactured humans. Idris Elba as the cynical, opportunistic but ultimately heroic captain of the vessel is perhaps the true heart and soul of the film. His nuanced & powerful performance anchors the action in a very credible psychological space. And even Charlize Theron's rather stiff, mannered performance serves the story well as her cold calculating character, ironically, is the personification of some very unattractive human qualities. And the Alien? Oh, he's positively awesome. The soundtrack at first felt oddly intrusive at key moments, especially during more gentle, quiet moments, but this of course is soon revealed to be another crafty, treacherous ploy by Ridley to temporarily throw us off the track, to intentionally detour us from the true path. There are plenty of little traps & tricks & blind alleys that are easy to stumble into, and this seems to be what has happened to so many frustrated viewers. You all just haven't managed to find your way back out or bothered to seriously consider just why would Ridley - the creative mastermind of some of the most brilliant, genius science fiction films ever - bother to pull such seemingly inane stunts? Well, he has his reasons, and if you make the cerebral effort to discover them you'll find that they're very good, well justified, brilliant reasons.

...Good people of Earth, you have got to start thinking just a little bit deeper and a bit more humanely if we are going to have even a scrap of a shred of a hope of working our way out from under the rapidly accumulating colossal mountain of challenges facing humankind; challenges which are threatening to annihilate civilization as we know it. The mounting threats are approaching the critical point of no return at an ever accelerating rate - a grim, miserable fate hurtling towards us at an alarming velocity, so much more swiftly than just about anyone's ever dared imagine. If we continue to tolerate the faulty, fractured, incomplete, lazy, sh*tty type of thinking such as that exhibited by the overly confident, self righteous, tedious, and mistaken haters of Prometheus, well, we are all very soon going to wake up dead. Or worse...

I really did love this movie when it first came out. Maybe it was because the soundtrack is comprised of some of my all time favorite music. Or maybe it's because it played so directly, so nakedly at that semisecret part of me that desperately longed to be included in the beautiful, hip, happening crowd - to be famous. A couple years later I watched it again on video and I was surprised at how it now seemed somewhat glib and shallow and even smug - not nearly as genuine or sincere as when I had first encountered it. And now it's nearly a decade later and I just caught it on late night TV, and yes, I did again find it to be emphatically melodramatic and undeniably manipulative and almost sickly sweet at key moments, but it also somehow still managed to be very fun, and heartwarming, and absolutely irresistible. Though this musical morality tale may at times be a bit maudlin for my tastes there are enough admirable, clever, wonderful elements to make it well worth recommending.

The acting is all consistently above average, with Billy Crudup as Russell Hammond, the charismatic guitarist of a rock band on the cusp of fame. Crudup projects a potently serene if inscrutable presence which nicely compliments the more emotionally transparent energy of Jason Lee as Jeff Bebe, the proud front man who grows increasingly insecure at the prospect of being eclipsed by Russell's rapidly ascending star status. The lovely and luminous Kate Hudson is adorable and even believable as a blissfully carefree, faithful, self deluding groupie. Witnessing all the backstage depravity and shenanigans is a wide eyed, ridiculously prepubescent, aspiring Rolling Stone journalist, William Miller, whose cherubic face unexpectedly works to his advantage in opening doors and gaining confidences. A young but sophisticated Zooey Deschanel appears briefly as William's caring older sister. Francis McDormand as William's comically protective mother perhaps steals the show. She is a force of nature able to flatten any and all opposition as she fiercely battles to preserve her sweet boy's innocence. The film is based on writer/director Cameron Crowe's personal experience as a teenage reporter on assignment for the preeminent music magazine when he traveled for a time with the then monstrously out sized and now fabled Led Zeppelin tour.

The subject of this film is not so much the well documented, much hyped excesses of the rock star lifestyle - though the debauched, lurid recklessness is prominently on display - but more so the often difficult and painful process by which exuberant, naive youth passes into subdued, cynical maturity. Russel Crowe explores the curious phenomenon of our culture where the artists whose music so compellingly expresses the pain and regret and sorrow of our maturation are so often the people who for myriad reasons are the least equipped or willing to face this natural challenge. Pop musician are trapped in a state of arrested development, their rejection of traditional social behaviors and their intense self obsession is highly rewarded, and their impulsive momentary pleasures dominate their life choices. It's a devious irony that these revered cultural icons are frequently the ones who least benefit from their own insights, and by prolonging their own adolescences they often imperil their own well being, sometimes mortally. Crowe is fascinated by the curious paradox whereby the art and entertainment and music which we embrace in our youth is so often created by people with whom we, in fact, share very little in common.

But the music is what it's all about, or at least it should be. Music transcends time and space, and expresses everything so much more beautifully and deeply and directly than any other medium, even a film. As captivating or hypnotic or mesmerizing as a film may be a film invariably is an inferior experience to great music, and sadly the compelling soundtrack is too often overwhelmed or obliterated by the artifice of the film's cinematic devices. The pure integrity of the music is undermined by the dramatic scene cutting and intrusive editing which repeatedly decapitates and lacerates fantastic background songs. Sometimes the most formidable barrier to a film's excellence is the director's own ego fueled impulses. If this film had depended more confidently on the sublime power of its evocative musical score and resisted the temptation to overplay the drama it would absolutely have been a considerably more profound and satisfying experience.

Russel Crowe certainly understands that great music may compel us to want to intently examine the private lives of the musical artists - to want to dissect so clinically that with which we are so enthralled - but at least Crowe wisely refrains from attempting to define and label all of the mysterious, peculiar, vague emotions that the film explores. William's confused, conflicted, unresolved feelings for the supremely attractive people who inhabit the bizarre, depraved, exhilarating music world are very much our own confused, conflicted, unresolved feelings. Ultimately William's (and Crowe's) privileged position as an intimately trusted, precocious voyeur is what informs nearly every scene with a bittersweet, gentle, sad truth. Almost Famous, in the end, redeems itself.

If in adulthood we can somehow preserve even a scrap of our childhood enthusiasms then that truly is a victory of epic proportions deserving of our highest accolades. And if we manage this rare and special achievement with something like our dignity or possibly even our ideals intact, well, are we then anything less than Golden Gods?

There's a technical term with which you must be familiar in order to begin to appreciate what David Lynch has created with this remarkable web series. That term is Diegesis which essentially means that the voices or sounds are in fact part of the world and moment which we are witnessing on screen. In the case of Rabbits it's a very intentionally open question as to just when and where and from whom is originating the spoken dialog, reinforced by the fact that we aren't able to see anyone's mouth. Perhaps the actors prerecorded their lines which are being played back as a soundtrack as they pantomime their roles? Or maybe the voices were overdubbed after the drama was videotaped? Do the words we are hearing even have anything at all to do with what we are watching? Are the words intentionally misleading so as to throw us off the trail of the real story? Is the dialog intentionally fractured & scrambled so as to disrupt any possible linear, literal comprehension? Was the dialog lifted from another source altogether?!

More questions: Are the characters, in fact, aware of each other? Maybe they are figments of each other's imagination? Maybe they are reminiscing about their pasts, recalling individual episodes of personal experiences which hold meaning only to themselves? Do these characters live together, or maybe they each individually lived in the grim apartment consecutively? Is the male rabbit a visitor? Why does the unseen, possibly imaginary audience applaud excessively when he enters the room and stands oddly at the door, almost as though uncomfortable with the warm reception? Why does the mysterious audience laugh at seemingly random moments, which I at first believed occurred only in response to any mention of time or time related concepts, but this theory soon proved unsustainable? Are the rabbits related? Is one of the female rabbits the mother and the other the wife? And just who or what the hell is that bizarre mouth like orifice that occasionally appears and drones incomprehensibly while one rabbit conducts what might be a ceremonial ritual with flashlights? And what of the intermittently igniting match that burns into the upper right corner of the screen as though signaling a moment of particular import, and which sort of resembles those odd circular dots in older films that alerted the projectionist to an imminent reel change?

Rabbits is anything but definite; it's so thoroughly, utterly indeterminate, uncommitted, tenebrous. Is it a simple Post Modern theatrical production being staged on successive nights - nine brief episodes totaling 50 minutes? Or is it a piece of Off Broadway Absurdist Theater intended as an homage to a time when commercial theater tolerated more daring, more experimental forms of drama? Is it an Off Off Broadway production still in rehearsals? Is it a security cam recording of a bit of extra curricular thespian activities? Or maybe it's even some bizarre theatrical cult that nightly conducts pagan rituals to appease the fickle and malevolent Drama Gods? Is it taking place in a theater, or on a Hollywood sound stage, or on the set of a show that David was perhaps hoping to convince some unusually brave or foolish TV executive to televise? Is it just a video record of shenanigans with some of Lynch's friends, made for their own amusement? Are they aware of what they are involved in? The possibilities are limitless as well as the questions, and that seems to be the point. Well, not the point, but the method; the method of Lynch's inspired, outrageous, ridiculous, sublime madness.

What it seems to be is a purposely abstract, incoherent, ineffable expression of pure creativity. It defies all possible labels, genres and names, and seems to relish the precarious position it occupies in my baffled, bewildered, frantically deducing mind. It exudes such a sinister, almost macabre atmosphere, and yet it dares you to assume that there's anything suspicious occurring. Theater of the Absurd came into fashion in the late 50s, but the decor on stage is late 20s or early 30s Art Deco, so it may be that the furnishings have occupied this "room" for decades. Film Noir - Lynch's preferred form of cinematic expression - also came into fashion in the 50s, and the genre thrived in the same moody ominous atmosphere that this video piece exudes, thanks to Angelo Badalamenti's signature musical score which is particularly muted and subdued. The doleful, mournful wail of a distant train whistle is nearly comical and yet so poignantly evocative, as is the omnipresent gentle storm which drenches the proceedings in a corny, maudlin, overstated gloom. The stage set might bring to mind the bleak, stark TV set apartment that Jackie Gleason's Honeymooners occupied, which only adds yet another preposterously comical layer of meaning to the mix. And yet it all adds up to something indescribably eerie and treacherous.

These furry, large eared characters might be indiscriminate, random creatures functioning as placeholders, as stand ins for real actors who may one day actually perform the piece. It seems to be suggesting that characters in drama are better seen as unreal, non human entities more appropriate and consistent with the artifice and unreality of the theatrical form. Lynch may be implying that a dramatic persona is best understood as a manifestation of a more fanciful non reality, a product of imagination & fantasy, and isn't that, after all, the essence of childhood play? But then why is it all so damn taunting and threatening?! The cumulative effect - as all the dark, dreary, heavy atmosphere might dictate - however, is not at all depressing. No, on the contrary, it's very compelling and disturbing and thrilling and wonderful. And that might be the most confounding part, just how profoundly pleasant an experience is David Lynch's Rabbits.

I use this deliciously grotesque film as a sort of Rorschach test on friends to gauge their level of worthiness. Only those who relish Frankenhooker's deeply depraved lunacy, its sublimely sociopathic silliness are permitted entry into my exclusive inner circle. It's a cold, scary world out there and you gotta know who your real friends are - who's got your back, who you can count on when the sh*t goes down, who is just as delightfully demented as you are - and this maniacally warped chuckle machine is a fine instrument by which to measure someone's capacity for enlightened idiocy. That's a quality that is sorely lacking today, the ability and willingness of people to find amusement and even joy in the incorrectness of our natural selves; people foolishly refrain from laughing at the seemingly darker, foreboding, threatening aspects of reality. But not me.

Sure, horror films are embraced by society for their ability to shock us out of our routine emotions, to startle us momentarily into an alternate experience of our otherwise mundane lives. But horror films are rarely if ever appreciated for their unique power to reveal the utter absurdity of so many of our culturally propagated habits. We all caress and coddle and fetishize our own personal fears, guarding and nurturing them like tender, vulnerable infants, vigilant to keep them concealed, away from the critical and denigrating gaze of others. Most people do not like to belittle or mock or taunt their deepest fears, but this film so blithely, so candidly, so radiantly rejoices in burlesquing terrors that we ordinarily conceal, deny, and rebuke.

It's a luxury and a privilege to be allowed to wallow in the sordid, sour swamp of Frankenhooker's campy indifference to our petty, tedious concerns. This magically mental movie is a festive rejection of all of our ancient, tired, worn out notions of civility and decency and normalcy. Only a stark raving bore could not madly love Frankenhooker.

I could've easily given this film 4 stars, I am that disappointed with it. But some of the acting, and some of the direction and editing, and the cinematography is good enough to raise it to 6 stars. My main overarching complaint with this film, and the two which preceded it, is that I just wasn't impressed with or even entertained by the dialog. Some of it is insightful and clever and relevant but it just seems to keep repeating in different words, in different modes, the same sentiment. So when the chatter - the endless, circuitous chatter that isn't one half as clever as it likes to think it is - finally subsides we are left with two very attractive, semi intelligent narcissists marveling at the tedium of their lives. I was initially fascinated by the intensity of their irksome self interest, but I soon tired of this. Delpy is breathtakingly gorgeous and a supremely talented actress and Ethan Hawke is likewise attractive and a genuinely compelling thespian, but the self fascinated, often tedious discourse was just too calculated, contrived and manipulative for no other reason than to impress me with its audacious theatricality. I was craving a genuine, mundane, real moment that wasn't so emphatically genuine, mundane, and real.

The repeated times I audibly uttered such words as "Oh c'mon!" and "Really?!" and "A-Doy!" make me think I may possibly benefit from a few sessions with a gifted relationship therapist because every utterance of desire and disillusionment in this talk junkie's dream had me contemptuous of the very idea of anyone ever again attempting to pair up. I know this opinion is the opposite of popular but I must be candid and frank and honest with you good readers. In short - not for me.

This film makes a big assumption that its audience has at least a practical knowledge of the history of the Israel/Palestinian conflict. There's almost no context offered other than a brief recap of the 6 Days War in 1967 when Israeli forces under the leadership of the charismatic Moshe Dayan invaded and conquered Palestinian controlled lands on two fronts, including Syrian, Lebanese and Jordanian lands. To the south on the border with Egypt is the Gaza Strip and to the east is the West Bank encompassing the lands extending to the Jordan River and includes the ancient city of Jerusalem. These ostensibly autonomous regions were officially under Palestinian rule but nearly every aspect of daily life was controlled, monitored and regulated by Israeli agencies and forces. Never mentioned are the contentious circumstances of Israel's establishment as an actual nation following World War II, and thus a key aspect of the conflict is conspicuously absent, presumably because it would require at least 2 or 3 hours just to review this subject, even superficially. Needless to say, it's a complex and convoluted history, and prior biases and prejudices are inevitable, and the film is certainly not innocent of this transgression, but this in no way diminishes the impact and resonance of the film's superbly executed theatrics.

Yes, the film relies extensively on the old documentary trope of the well lit talking head, but The Gatekeepers triumphs in its masterful incorporation of actual Israeli military footage of aerial and ground attacks, and even more so by the photographs which through remarkable computer enhancement are rendered sculptural. The way these black & white still photos are made to spring to 3 dimensional life is a sublimely potent metaphor for the ability of artful storytelling to reanimate presumably long dead history. The words of the various former leaders of the Shin Bet carry an undeniable gravitas and echo in the mind and soul as we are visually guided on a tour of their previously little known realm. By focusing on the subtle variations and contradictions of each speaker's version of events and policies and tactics we are made acutely aware of the generations old conflict's profound effect upon the psyches of everyone involved. The most confident and stoic of the former leaders is possessed of a deep sense of tragedy. Avraham Shalom - who headed Shin Bet from 1981 to 1986 during the time of an incident where two Palestinian prisoners were ordered killed while being held in captivity - casually denies his culpability but it's apparent that the incident has inflicted deep wounds which even today are still very tender.

The mind bending paradoxes of the seemingly intractable conflict have left their mark on all these competent, eloquent and even brave men, and some are willing to admit that perhaps they have behaved immorally and even criminally while also acknowledging the irony of their cruel treatment of Palestinians as inexcusable behavior for a people as historically mistreated as the Jews. It's a desperately poignant moment when the individual men all express their doubts and even contempt for the political leaders who so brazenly exploit the horrific conflict for their own ends. These six men who were charged with the gruesome task of eliminating threats to Israel's security are oddly some of the most compelling critics of their nation's treatment of the Palestinians.

This film is not just a thinly veiled reference to the inception and growth of the global phenomenon of Scientology following WWII but is also an unusually compelling and insightful indictment of all organized faiths, whether they be centuries old traditional religions or contemporary, fly by night, cult-like financial enterprises.

As portrayed by Juaquin Phoenix the 3/4 mad character of Freddie Quell's valiant struggles with himself would imply that Paul Thomas Anderson suspects that no man is beyond redemption. It also more emphatically asserts that just about no one is too irrational or dangerous to be a useful follower. The Cause, as the fictional quasi religion is named, ostensibly aims to cure people of their mental troubles which all stem from traumatic experiences suffered in life going all the way back to birth and even before conception; we can even inherit them from our past lives. As ordained by it's charismatic and imposing founder, Lancaster Dodd - sublimely realized by the incomparable Philip Seymour Hoffman - followers must purge themselves of their psychological burdens through intense and increasingly absurd repetitive routines. One such routine involves touching a wall and then a window on the opposite side of the room while reciting words which might possibly be interpreted as meaningful. It's ridiculous beyond description but then again what religious rite isn't? Does Lancaster truly believe in his bizarre notions and techniques? Does it matter?

What does matter is that poor damaged insane Freddie wants so badly to believe. He isn't a perfect follower by any measure, but ultimately the doubts and suspicions he harbors about The Cause and it's Master are no match for his own desperate need for acceptance and understanding and, yes, love. That's the whole sprawling, rambling, tumultuous epic story in a nutshell - how individuals choose to subsume their own self interest for the good of arbitrary and questionable institutions. It's a fairly simple question to ask but a remarkably complex, rich and vague answer that P. T. Anderson offers in the form of a gorgeously filmed, patiently paced, artfully subtle film. It's probably too subtle and vague a film for most viewers, especially the lengthy and convoluted second act when Anderson lays all the foundation bricks of his acutely reasoned thesis, but the barrage of ideas and insights that this film hurls out is a thing of beauty. The Master doesn't just politely respond to one big question, it passionately persuades us to ask ourselves a thousand more.

Quentin Tarantino's mastery of the cinematic form is impressive, even inspiring, and his encyclopedic knowledge of film history - specializing in more obscure, less mainstream genres - informs his every frame with a stunningly rich vibrancy. Early in his career he was accused of outright theft of entire scenes from many of his cherished genre films, but as his art has progressed he has more deftly and subtly appropriated his curious sources into his own work. In Django Unchained Quentin is entirely in command of his inspirations as even his most blatant nods to other Western (or Southern) films are now so thoroughly re-imagined and re-crafted into his own vision that he's no longer guilty of any such petty crimes. No, his cinematic action is now all entirely his own. But in spite of the genuine draw dropping creativity on display throughout the entire film, there's still something seriously wrong. I'm referring to the violence in Tarantino's films, which is often exceptionally graphic.

Quentin has claimed that his use of sensational violence as a cinematic element is no more questionable than a Hollywood musical's use of singing or dancing. I wish I could agree with him, that graphic, gory, extreme violence in a film is no more objectionable an element than a high kicking chorus line, but that's a ridiculous idea.

Violence, by the fact of its deeply primal impulse, resonates in the audience in a very distinct, particular way. Whenever something exceptionally brutal occurs in a film I find myself instinctively reminding myself that it's just a movie, that it isn't real, and this of course takes me right out of the moment. I become aware that I'm watching a filmed cinematic expression of violence. This is not a good thing for a medium whose magical power is wholly dependent upon sustaining its delicate illusions. Django Unchained worked as a fantasy only as long as I was willing and able to suspend my disbelief, but its gratuitous, over the top violence repeatedly shook me from the dream.

Quentin has spoken to the fact that the actual violence experienced by real slaves was often much worse, much more shocking than what he has depicted, and this is very true. But the reality of the existence of gruesome violence in our mad, mad world is not justification enough to celebrate its romanticized, sensationalized recreation. If horrendous film violence isn't an inherently exploitative element in its own right, cynically preying upon that part of us that defies reason and decency, then those crappily made graphic exploitation films from which Tarantino draws much of his inspiration would never have made a nickle profit. But they did and still do, so cinematic violence for its own sake is an irrationally intoxicating force that, like graphic pornography, overwhelms any artistic or philosophical concerns. Whatever cleverness or ingenuity or seeming sensitivity his films express, they are somewhat undone by their own shameless antisocial depravity.

As a mature, intelligent, enlightened individual, Tarantino disappoints me with his continued fixation on the emotion of revenge and in extracting it in the most savage methods possible. He has wallowed in this revenge mode for the past 3 or 4 films, and though he's managed to somehow raise the already high bar of his creative and technical cinematic mastery with this film, I feel he's dropping the ball with his continuing adolescent preoccupations. So while artistically and technically this film is a solid nine I must deduct two full points for the indulgent and irresponsible violence. Though he does it with superior style and bravura Tarantino splatters his films with way too much grim, lurid, sensational violence.

I believe that a more violent culture is a symptom of a less healthy society. There's no law against the excessive, psychopathic, unrepentant display of violence in film, but it is a crime that Quentin now allows it to degrade his otherwise masterful art.

There's a dreamlike haze that surrounds and infuses nearly every scene of this curiously entertaining film. The gauzy light that filters though speckled windows and reflects off polished fixtures softly reveals a placid world of gentle familial discord. We are casually introduced to a married couple who are living their lives on unusual terms, by special laws of their own devising. Franklin is a randy scamp, a bon vivant barely hampered by his uncooperative lower limbs, courting a modest bevy of willing paramours, while Eleanor is a self assured modern women pursuing her own personal interests. They seem to have settled upon an arrangement, perhaps as much out of mutual love and respect as out of practicality. There is a Depression out there, millions are suffering for sure, but here upon these sylvan landscapes and within these manicured chambers unfolds a tale as absurd and as charming as a nursery rhyme, and yet it is real.

Well, as real as can be expected of a film that seeks to dance with our hearts and minds, to sweep us up in its gentle but irrepressible rhythms, to twirl and pirouette us just enough to get us giddy. Or even a little dizzy, because that's what I imagine it must have felt like to be on the verge of another world war, witnessing our European allies being thrashed and slaughtered mercilessly by some new bizarre evil force - dizzying. England had been witnessing at very close hand Germany's assault upon the continent. Some might say the Brits were perfectly dignified in their solemn comportment, but things were getting dire as the Nazi rhetoric intensified along with the escalating violence. This is the grim backdrop to events that transpired that weekend in a woodland paradise in New York state in the summer of '39 when His and Her Majesties had dispatched themselves to our coarse, uncouth shores on an unprecedented mission of desperation. It was an act of humiliation, or so the Queen believed, in spite of her stammering husband's reassurances. Their plaintive cries would not be fully answered for another two and a half years, but that is not the point of this near farcical cinematic trifle. It's concerned with more modest, more intimate matters. The film rightfully takes it for granted that its audience is sufficiently familiar with pre war American ideals and morality and is aware of the imminent cataclysmic events that are to reshape the entire world so there's just no need to meticulously restate the obvious or bludgeon us with factuality. If the film plays it fast and loose with certain elements, well that's an issue for the tedious truth patrol to take up. But for me, I heartily embrace the creative liberties they took in fashioning this quaint and compelling curiosity.

I was surprised by how impressed I was with Bill Murray's straightforward but nuanced portrayal. Never emphatic nor ever glib, his approach is supremely assured and relaxed, and continually surprising, but it's a performance that's easy to misread if you're not paying attention. Apparently many viewers simply failed to notice the many, many terrific small flourishes and touches that amount in their entirety to a wholly formed, genuine character. I suppose Bill's performance is too small of a miracle to get most people excited, considering just how few other critics and reviewers have mentioned the degree to which he mastered the East Coast Elite accent and demeanor and posture, all of which are too often done so atrociously bad in films that a terrible rendition has now become the accepted standard. If you're attentive you'll pick up on the subtle but distinctive shifts in the tone and timbre of his voice, translating the infinite depth of his pain and sorrow and fear into a sort of coded song. Bill's instinctual playfulness serves him well in crafting a persona that's both fun to watch and worthwhile to contemplate, resonating on multiple levels as a sincere and legitimate, if imperfect human. That's a theatrical accomplishment that's too often dismissed, too seldom celebrated.

Las Vegas is a mythical place, a yellow brick road destination that came into being on the backs and bucks of men on the fringes of society who weren't constricted by petty, hypocritical morality. Naturally, it's a town of broken losers, desperate dreamers, and cold remorseless opportunists. So the most definitive, most emblematic American city is a paradox, promising pleasure but thriving on pain. This is the grim landscape that Casino occupies and Martin Scorsese is our gracious tour guide, pointing out all the garish, notorious landmarks with near reverential diligence.

DeNiro is convincing as the Jewish numbers expert Casino manager, Sam "Ace" Rothstein, beholden to the mob and loyal to his would-be tough guy boyhood buddy, Nicky Santoro, played flawlessly by Joe Pesci, who shows up in town and complicates Ace's life. Ace has complicated things for himself, too, by hooking up with ex top dollar whore, Ginger McKenna, played by a raw and riveting Sharon Stone. Ginger's alcohol and drug soaked mind leads her into the arms of the wrong guy, the worst possible guy, setting the stage for an inevitable tragic showdown. No one escapes unpunished, but then again no one entered the game innocent.

It's a chilling image of a fiery hot world, burning white on the fumes of people's hope and fear, but it's a vision that's somehow sympathetic to the sad, twisted souls who choose to inhabit this godforsaken outpost. There's never an easy score, never an unearned jackpot. Every nickle and dime in Casino is hard fought, paid for with blood, sweat, and tears. It's often gruesome to witness the brutal depravity that passes for human behavior in Scorsese's films but it's never depressing. There's a sinister satisfaction to be found in all his dangerous, dark shenanigans, just like when you finally accept that you do in fact enjoy seeing other people get hurt. Or get killed.

It's not as groundbreaking or as awe inspiring as Raging Bull, or as epic as Goodfellas, or as ambitious as either. It's a somewhat more nuanced, mature version of that patented Scorsese style, this time not so much rejoicing in the opportunity to depict unconscionable violence, but certainly not ashamed of it's lurid excesses. If you choose to see all this as an expression of the curious - maybe demented - American psyche, then Scorsese has done his job. I think he's done it damn well.