Reviews

I like the Coen brothers. This (in my best yiddishkeit grammar) I didn't like. Why not? I found it inauthentic. A bit more yiddish or jewish flavor for the goyim, but without the genuine understanding of Bashivis Singer or Isaac Peretz. It's worth noting that the brothers captured better the midwest zeitgeist in Fargo than they are able in the tzimmis of mishagas. Analogies to Job? I might think the viewer more Job than the protagonist. Maybe that's the "in" joke. Misdirection, excuse the pun. We want to think Gopnik is Job when all the time it's us. Look: if you wanna see a real movie that captures the Jewish experience, find "The Plot Against Harry." Harry Plotnik has to be where the brothers lifted the name Gopnik. But Roemer, who directed Harry then promptly shelved it for 20 years, made a movie for himself. Authentic. This is a mish-mash that mixes stereotypes with pseudo-mysticism and achieves bupkis; nothing. Don't be fooled. The opening promises something only the shtetl can deliver. A Serious Man is lox on wonder bread, without the wonder.

A real noir. Well written; it makes sense. No plot contrivances. Well, maybe a few, just to get the film rolling. But once it gets going, it grabs you with tight, tough Marlowe-esque writing ("He should drop dead, anyway.") and visuals just too beautiful to believe. There's no pretty cinema here. The director wanted to tell a hardboiled story and delivers. Dark and light lend themselves well to this story of an amnesiac hoodlum as he battles to find himself, awash in an ocean of his past misdeeds. A story of redemption told by characters who wrestle with their own demons. The film never panders. It works hard and gets the job done, like the characters who inhabit it. A treat from beginning to end.

I agree with all the single (1) star reviews but will give it two because the friend I watched it with thought it had some entertainment value. It doesn't.

Sean Connery plays the main character while trying to hide his native Scotch brogue.under poor imitiation Brooklyn dialect. But that's not the first thing that doesn't work. The movie opens with a sequence before Connery's character leaves prison: a group session with the prison psychologist that represents three minutes of film that should have been left on the cutting room floor. Also non-sequitor is the intrusive and un-cool Quincy Jones soundtrack (Jones' joke as he deposited his paycheck). There is nothing cool about the bomb. The entire affair is a plot contrivance completely unsupported by any development, rhyme or reason. It's all way over the top schtick wrapped around an obtuse theme that we are all being watched and listened to by various nefarious government voyeurs who collectively can't accomplish what an asthmatic invalid kid in the apartment of one the "victims" can do on a ham radio contacting his other incel friends.

The real victim is the audience. This film cost 3 million to make and grossed 5, so it was considered a success, at least by the real thieves: the studio. I watched this for free on Thanksgiving Eve. It's a turkey.

Before watching The Damned, ask yourself, "what do I think cinema is?" There are great films that are perfect in composition and symmetry that are ultimately audience friendly. This isn't. It is, however, absolutely fearless. It challenges you. Those who do not want to consider art mirroring life, but instead want to be fed a concoction, will not like it. Many who fancy themselves connoisseurs sit in harsh judgment, comparing it to other auteur films. But The Damned is so historically brutal, it is beyond comparison. The film vividly captures the moral decay and depravity of the rise of the Third Reich and there is nothing, repeat: nothing, remotely redeeming about that. Conversely, there is a terrible, disturbing and morbidly fascinating anti-beauty to see it on screen. It is as much an historic cautionary tale as a modern warning. Those who judge it harshly do not consider its truth: it reflects the greed and lust for power that propels humanity not only to war, but to more the gradual punishments of pandemics and submerged cities. The only film that remotely approaches it, albeit from a different but equally terrifying perspective is Dr. Strangelove, a film I watch every Halloween to be truly frightened. Strangelove asks "what if?". There is no "what if" to the rise of the Third Reich. We cannot hide that it happened, nor should we forget that it was defeated. It is the knowledge that what we see on the screen was defeated that makes us able to watch it, to witness it, to own it, to claim it, and to remember, "it is only a film" Heaven help us if we ever forget. To make a film of this power required total confidence in the director's palette. Visconti shows it here. The Damned is a bitter pill, not for many, but for those able to look honestly in its mirror. It is superlative film making of rarely equaled brilliance.

Like its title, Aria for an Athlete, this near masterpiece is a synesthesia of visual and lyrical art, the physical brutality of its wrestling indistinguishable from its gorgeous musical score. Grand opera, in story and in life, is brutal, and the whole world is a stage, but life more so. Many Fellini-like elements here: surrealism, and the alchemy of culture, artistic and logistic, as the protagonist travels in extrasensory ecstacy, in satyr-like orbits. My review is written still under the effects of its disorienting spell. Yes, it is the story of an athlete, a wrestler, when this wrestler was a Caruso, more than opera. Stunningly beautiful: costuming, photography, music, sets, characters and locations. Wistful dialogue; memorable performances. You will not, perhaps can not, find this originality from Hollywood. Spend two hours in its ether, then more regaining your senses. It is a lyrical symphony, an opera, a reflection, a dream, a biography; a life. It is to what poetry aspires.

The best of cinema, a simple story brilliantly made. Complete suspension of disbelief, Tawny Pipit plucks every human heart string and ones I didn't know I had. The sheer naturalism: I wasn't audience, I was a member of the community, joined for the protection and nurturing of a small nest of Tawny Pipit, a bird that had only nested once before in the history of Britain. This grand act of nature, representative of the heroic nature of the British people, in City and in Country, at the height of WWII, still unites us after 75 years to preserve together what is just and good. There is no pretense to this wondrous film. Every scene reflects humanity as sharply today as was necessary to win the war against the Axis then. I cannot give this picture enough stars. This is NOT modern substance-less flash; this is everlasting story telling: simple, direct and resonant. Bravo!

It's 2019 and I just finished watching Broadway Danny Rose for the first time in probably 10 years. In that time, Woody Allen's career has reflected his private life, often unfavorably, but no one should dispute that this film found him at the top of his abilities. It comes down to a great story, beautifully told, in direction: the timing of long shots as the characters arrive at their marks (the diner; the Waldorf; watch for them); the cinematography (I'm a sucker for B&W); the perfect casting of odd ball characters in quintessential NYC; the supremely erotic wriggling as Allen and Farrow work their way out of the ropes after being captured (when Mr. Allen was still employing understatement, letting the humanity communicate to his audience); and maybe most of all, the romance. This is Allen in love with Broadway, with New York, with film making; with the Catskills; and with people. Allen loves people because of their blemishes. As Danny Rose says, "my hand to God," this is a beautiful picture. "Emes." Truth.

Tuned in late to a TCM broadcast and saw only the last 75 minutes of this captivating and genuine film. Rarely, rarely am I spontaneously moved to tears, not by tired devices, but by totally engaging believability. Even without the first 45 minutes (which I will now be sure to watch), my ears instantly warmed to the beautifully original writing, never distracted by the skillful and seamless direction. The dialogue rings true. It is original and whimsical, never squeezed into start and finish. Ms. Dennis and Mr. Newly are not Hollywood handsome and beautiful; they are real people, not packaged stars. The film resonates with humanity and heart; suspension of disbelief gladly given. Beautiful writing; sensitive direction. THIS is romance, like life itself.

Loved it. Bought it at a flea market with no expectations other than liking Steve Buscemi and his choice of rolls, and I wasn't disappointed.

I am not a fan of Hollywood, of newer movies (most, and the sea of bad movies is vast), or of hand-held video and scenes of brief duration. This film uses the language of film, film making, and what I can only imagine its inside understanding to tell a story as simple and real as its sometimes homely characters. Somehow, the homelier, regular folk make the beautiful people beautiful, a metaphor for the whole celebrity industry.

These stars shine. There is nothing assuming. It is an understated bit of film making that simply uses the medium to tell its tale. If there are movies about movies, ,like "Day for Night" or Fellini's great, "And the Ship Sailed On," this one joins the pantheon. And the story reels you in (film pun intended) and holds you to the end.

It is lovely, joyful and refreshing, meaning to be without the heavy hand.

Thanks, Steve and thank you whoever left it at the flea market, new and unopened, for me to discover. Great date flick. Loved it.

After my mercifully few recent outings to the movies, I had sworn off Hollywood (please see my review of "Last Vegas," a genuine stinker). Perhaps I do not see movies to empty my mind of truth or reality. Truth, for me, is waaaaayyyyy stranger than fiction.

And so I found "Nebraska." First, the quiet, poetic black and white cinematography is as much dialog as the script; the locations are wordless scenes. The timing of fades and pans are orchestrated like a romantic symphony. And like a conductor, the director tells the story almost seamlessly; the few moments where suspension of disbelief falters are few, and recovery is prompt and gentle.

Other reviews can handle plot line and specifics. The contrast between families is a bit cartoonish (Nebraska cousins vs. Billings latte-drinkers), but hey, I give a little poetic license to make a point. I think Forte's affectations unnecessary for purposes of audience identification.

Nonetheless, my overall reaction: how did Hollywood let this movie get made? It's understated. It whispers, where other movies scream. And it comes together at the end with a joyful, believable resolution like a Brahms' symphony. It reminded me of the conclusion of "Little Miss Sunshine," another anomaly of American filmmaking. And I adore black and white. It was "The Last Picture Show" for the 2010's. And I love casting that isn't beautiful.

So...I also said "how did Hollywood let this get made," when I left "Last Vegas." But that I left before the half-way point, wishing it hadn't been made.

Just when I was going to give up on American movies, along comes "Nebraska." It was like winning the sweepstakes.

In fairness, I did not see the last half of the movie (unless, of course, it was exactly the same as the first half, and in high probability, it was). I didn't deliberately walk out of the theater; my date was displeased that I was unable to hide my disbelief at how bad this contrived, unfunny, utterly predictable piece of mass consumption waste of time was. She walked out and I followed. Even worth breaking up with a wonderful person. I will stand behind my opinion of this bomb 'til my dying day.

The so-called story line disregards anything resembling genuine character development. It is as if these characters had absolutely no depth of character in the fifty years supposedly intervening their childhood friendship. Their actions and dialogue between themselves and those around them is as wooden and shallow as characters in a vacuum can be. Look, I guess no one, even these known Hollywood stars, doesn't need the money, but this one is bottom of the barrel; shameful. One would hope not to have a turkey like this in ones oeuvre, ever. Certainly not toward the close of an otherwise distinguished career. But maybe that's only true for the last generation of great (or even mediocre) stage actors.

I guess it's just about the money.

Well, my mistake. Thank you, honey, for making me leave the theater. I will love you forever for it, even if I never see you again.