Roland Jacob’s blog

Reviewed by Dennis Schwartz

Alfred Hitchcock’s 50th film is a Cold War romantic-spy story inspired
by a real incident; it aims at making the spy story more realistic (showing
how difficult it’s to kill someone in its piece de resistance farm scene
kitchen murder) rather than cartoonish like the popular but unbelievable
James Bond thrillers. Torn Curtain turns out to be more about domestic
trust than a tough Cold War yarn, which displeased many critics and the
public as they both evidently expected more of a thriller with Bond-like
touches of light comedy. It’s flawed by its plodding pace, its banal politics,
Paul Newman’s wooden performance, its overlong 128-minute length, and too
many rambling scenes that break down due to the director’s shoddy handling
of details (something that’s an anathema to the usual Hitchcock concern
about the finer points). Though only relegated to be a minor film in the
master’s oeuvre, it still has his magical touches in a few splendidly chilling
scenes and can be viewed as a vastly underrated work that holds up when
viewed at the end of the Cold War for its sharply-observed humanitarian
point of view (real people were murdered by spies, even those who were
on the side of the so-called good guys were murderers, and did it not in
a Hollywood septic way).

Paul Newman plays Michael Armstrong, a gifted American physicist
engaged to his gritty science assistant Dr. Sarah Louise Sherman (Julie
Andrews). While attending a science convention in Copenhagen, Denmark,
Armstrong defects to East Berlin, claiming he’s disappointed Washington
canceled his pet project on nuclear defense and hopes to work with the
commies to develop a defense system to make nuclear war passé. Sarah,
not knowing he’s playing a double-agent game to pump Eastern bloc scientist
Professor Gustav Lindt for info on the missing piece of the puzzle to the
nuclear problem he’s working on, surprises him by showing up in East Berlin
and making it more difficult for him to operate. 

Warning: spoiler to follow.

When Armstrong secretly treks to a country farmhouse to make contact
with those inside East Germany who are willing to help him, he’s detected
by his annoyingly clever heavy-handed assigned security guard watchdog
Gromek (Wolfgang Kieling) and has no choice, with the help of the farm
woman (Carolyn Conwell), to kill him in a bitter struggle involving a pummeling,
strangulation, knifing and suffocation in a gas oven (mindful of the way
the Nazis did things) that’s well filmed and as unpleasantly memorable
as any murder scene in a Hitchcock film (that includes the shower scene
in Psycho, though one can argue he improved the murder scene even more
in his 1972 Frenzy). Gromek’s disappearance means Armstrong must act fast
to get his mission accomplished. It results in an unconvincing scene where
he picks Lindt’s brain while tossing around mathematical equations on a
blackboard and getting the commie scientist all worked up that he’s not
up to snuff so that in his vainness he lets out the formula to show he’s
a genius. Armstrong then lets a relieved Sarah in on his secret mission
and the two try to escape the country with the help of an organization
called Pi operating inside East Germany, who take them to their next contact
via a fake bus. When detected watching a ballerina performance (Tamara
Toumanova, real-life ballerina) Armstrong shouts out fire in the crowded
theater causing hysteria even though there was no smoke or fire detected,
and the two lovers escape by boat to return to the American way of life. 

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Neither blasphemous nor offensive, this faithful adaptation of Nikos Kazantzakis’ book sees Christ torn between divine fate and an all too forgiving awareness of annoyance and sexuality, departing most dramatically from the gospels in the matrix 40 minutes, a clearly weird chain in which Jesus is led from the cross by an angel who offers him a normal life as husband and father. The performances - especially Keitel (Judas) and Bowie (Pontius Pilate) - are excellent; the fun of biblical times is effective and plausible; and the percussive ethnic score for the most part admirably complements the exceptional photography. The dialogue, however, is often astonishingly jejune and the miracles mundane. More fooling, Scorsese fails to illuminate the soul of Christ - essentially what the film is all concerning. Nevertheless, it remains a sincere, typically eager and ingenious in the planning stages unemployed from America’s most provocatively au fait film-maker.

In “Paradise,” little Elijah Wood keeps getting passed all about by his mom. In another essentially of the humanity, Melanie Griffith and Don Johnson are still grieving over a dead child.

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When Wood’s mother dispatches the 10-year-old to her friend Griffith for the summer, the inevitable happens. Inevitably.

Maybe you can buy big-names Griffith and Johnson as southern small-town folks. Perhaps you like to take your sentimentality neat. If you do, you’ll probably lap up this mutual salvation set in a fictional town called Paradise. It’s a teary season full of cute-kid moments and Griffith-Johnson moments. There’s also a bucolic passel of frogs, worms and other living treasures.

Wood, initially unaware of the infant tragedy, finds immediate trouble in Paradise. Guilt-ridden Griffith can’t be intimate with Johnson anymore. So he hangs around bars and his shrimp boat. They treat Wood amiably but at arm’s length. Sassy 9-year-old Thora Birch is friendlier. After Wood sheds his uptight city ways, the newfound friends are soon hurling earthworms at grown-ups, peeping at lovers in sheds and having rustic kiddy fun. It isn’t too long either, before Griffith and Johnson start to like the kid.

He makes friends with them separately. He works the nets with Johnson. He cuts green beans with Griffith. When Wood sees a remote-control airplane lying around the house, he begs Johnson to fly it. Johnson says he hasn’t flown the plane in a while, but “maybe it’s time I did.”

Heeeaalin’. Wo-wo-wo, heaaaalin’.

After discovering the awful secret, Wood finds himself in a strategic bargaining position. But there are still emotional demons forGriffith to purge. The resolutions in “Paradise” have a TV-Movie-of-the-Week simplicity. Griffith has one effective, emotional moment in the attic. But this is hardly a major effort for her or hubbie. They seem to be taking a vacation during the movie. Wood, who was in “Avalon” and some 20 TV commercials, has a certain vole-like preciousness. But he and Birch stumble through the wordier, adult-written lines. They fare better when Wood is reacting silently, or Birch’s natural precociousness breaks through.

Director Mary Agnes Donoghue, who double-faulted with “Beaches” and “Deceived,” has it easier this time. At least the movie’s been done already. Produced by the team that gave you “Three Men and a Baby,” it’s another Americanized French film. The original, Jean Loup Hubert’s “Le Grand Chemin,” was hardly fabulous. But it sits better in the memory than this respinning.

There’s a subplot involving Birch’s zany mother (Sheila McCarthy) and her desperate dealings with men. There’s also an episode in which Birch and Wood head to a nearby roller rink to confront the girl’s estranged father. These incidents presumably add to the theme of family loss. They also make the end of this particular summer a blessed relief.

I don’t know what you think when you envisage bantam men springing around on mats during the summer Olympics, but I’m guessing it probably isn’t “action top.” That’s where you and Hollywood part ways. Because in 1985, smack dab in the era of Firm and Rambo, the movies introduced us to a stylish breed of American hero. People wearing tights. Yes, friends, it’s Gymkata, a cinema about an elite… gymnast trained by the government to infiltrate a unfavourable, God willing Middle Eastern country and take suggest in an epic valiant arts oppose known no more than as The Game. His solitary defense? A formidable fusion of bellicose arts and gymnastics. I love movies about unassimilable policy.

A indecorous attempt to cash in on respecting a dozen ’80s lemonade culture trends (Ninjas! Karate! Post-Mary Lou Retton gymnastics!), Gymkata stars erstwhile Olympic gymnastics promising and middle school play-praiseworthy actor Kurt Thomas as Jonathan Cabot, an expert athlete recruited by the government seeking a secret mission for some reason. See, there’s this minute, obscure nation called Parmistan that’s apparently the perfect place for a Star Wars brickbat defense array—Star Wars, kid, that takes you back, huh? If you weren’t already there the newest you spotted Cabot’s knee-pants-shorts and in the groove mini-mullet (aka “The Bacon”)—but the place is wholly backwards and is wont to kill off every new arrival that wanders by.

The at best in the way of to win respect is to participate in an old triathalon-predilection contest known as “The Plot,” which no squatter has won in something like 900 years, which is just wordless, unless Parmistan is proper overflowing with understandable resources and never needs to trade or anything. Anyway, the government figures Cabot is the lifelike man by reason of the commission, despite the the score that his furtively agent pater sucked it up pretty badly and got himself killed off in the opening sequence.

But first, Cabot will require to merge the power of gymnastics and karate into Gymkata, a process which involves a truly hilarious training montage that doesn’t unbiased have the clever sense to be throw into relief to a kickin’ power ballad. But after a few minutes of learning karate and horseback riding from a knot of stereotypes (hey look, a wise martial arts swami with a giant pet hawk for some reason!), he’s adroit to go—but not in front of bedding Princess Rubali (Tetchie Agbayani), a member of the Parmistani royalty who gets it on with Cabot because he’s the hero. Or she’s impressed that he can walk upstairs on his hands, which is part of the secret to Gymkata, if the training sequence is to be believed.

It’s sort of fatuous to uninterrupted draw this “plot,” because there isn’t much to it, and what is there makes no sense. Do it to mention, Cabot makes it to Parmistan, but not in the presence of a brainless action sequence in which he defeats a smock of unspecifiable remote devils given no motivation to attack with the help of the convenient gymnastics serious impede luckily installed in a back alley and pre-coated with utilitarian chalk&#8212what unexpected luck!

It’s consistent think twice in the good old days The Meet begins. Parmistan is sort of the perfect storm of lazy filmmaking, with cheap sets, unconvincing costumes (all foreigners wear furry hats or turbans, approve of they couldn’t decide which “-stan” they were flourishing for), and questionable… by a long way, the whole shooting match. Counterpart, Princess Rubali is exotic and dark-skinned (and, incidentally, Filipino, not that the movie cares), but one else in the country, including her father, the Khan (Burt Kartalian), is order of Eastern bloc-looking. Dad, frankly, seems ripped right from a Mel Brooks movie, cheering on his sullen, impoverished subjects with the constant refrain “Yakmallah!” Oh, and did I reveal Parmistan is represented in The Game by a posy of guys dressed as ninjas? Yeah, you be aware, those ancient, perchance Medial Eastern/Soviet ninjas.

Of direction there’s also a villain, B-cinema beefcake Zamir (Richard Norton), who is to be married to Rubali and wants to corrupt The Game for his own purposes, or something. The point is, he totally cheats, and he and his gather of ninjas do their best to abash a stop to the awesome power of Cabot, but he’s got gymkata on his side! And also, the downright good fortune to be compelling as far as someone is concerned in The Game in a backwards country that precisely happens to install a modern-looking pommel horse in the middle of an antique village of crazy people (no, categorically, all the crazies are sent to active there and have no teeth and for some reason there are pigs). The result is equal of the finest sequences ever filmed, in which all the crazies squeeze for everyone Cabot and berate him one by one so he can clobber them all with his pommel horse skills.

From acting that gives new dimension to the modifier “bad” to blatently expository huddle to nonsensical plotting, Gymkata, directed by Robert Clouse of Enter the Dragon pre-eminence, is utter more beyond brand, but it’s so inept, watching it is surreal, practically high. I’m not normally one for “so bad, it’s effects,” but really, that’s Gymkata right there. Well, dialect mayhap “oh my god, it’s so inferior, it’s verging on appropriate.” It’s never dreary, anyway. If they just hand over a supplement starring Kerri Strug, my life longing be bring to an end.

Oh, and one more thing. This is based on a tome. That’s pure. A book.

Elephant
Written and directed by Gus Van Sant

With a cast of high-school students
Elephant

Late in Gus Van Sant's new film "Elephant" the camera pans the room in which two high-school boys are preparing an assault on their school. As it sweeps across the wall we glimpse a drawing of an elephant. This is the only overt reference in the film to its title, though other critics have said it refers to the saying about our willful refusals to see an elephant in our living room; that is, to turn a blind eye to an enormity before us.

"Elephant" is obviously Van Sant's take on Columbine, a meditation on the coldness, lack of curiosity or empathy or even connectedness that haunts adolescence and the societal institutions that govern that fragile period. His camera simply follows (or leads) students through and around a conventional, single-story suburban high school near Portland, Ore. Though filmed in real time, sequence after sequence, the film covers a simultaneity; everything is happening at the same time. We see the two killers early on as they approach the school carrying their lethal baggage, but the film leaves them for an hour before picking them up again. In the meantime it follows, seemingly at random, single students, groups of friends, a teacher - always in long single takes down endless corridors with left or right turns that still lead nowhere. Three girls choose their lunches at the cafeteria, gossip and talk of shopping while they eat, put their trays away, head to the girls' bathroom, and vomit up everything. Another girl, homely and seemingly unloved by anyone at school, is too shy to undress in the locker room. Boys mingle, separate, head to and from class. Life is an endless round of repetitive activities. Classes are held but they seem tangential, less important than the corridors.

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The film opens with a car weaving down a suburban street, clipping the sides of parked cars and finally discharging its student at school. But it is the boy's father, drunk at 8 in the morning, who has been driving. The boy takes the car keys, goes to the school office and phones his mother to come and pick up his father. Later the boy will be the only one to recognize the killers for what they plan to do. They even tell him to stay out of the building to save himself.

Some of this - though not the killings, of course - is reminiscent of Frederic Wiseman's documentary "High School," but Van Sant intends, I think, simply to let us in on the life of a school at the moment of its death. I understand his intention, but good intentions do not make good art. We end up where we began, as observers of both life and horror, without any place to go to learn, or understand, or even to acknowledge the antecedents of the acts. The two killers, played by Alex Frost and Eric Deulen, are unsolved mysteries and remain so from beginning to end. Van Sant gives not even a hint about them or their lives, though one act near the end reveals a particular pathology in one of them.

"Elephant" won the Palme d'Or at Cannes this year, and has already inspired heated confrontations among its viewers, but it seems to me to show a flabbiness of thought, a refusal to bring more than a dispassionate observer's sensibility to the kinds of questions that art exists to illuminate. The story of such an assault is inherently powerful, even overwhelming, with echoes and overtones that could speak to our entire society; but Van Sant has run away from it, choosing instead to stay in the corridors, the endless corridors that lead noplace.
 
 

EPITOME:
Judith Nelson (Holly Hunter) finally catches up with her unfaithful cardiologist husband,
Bob (Martin Donovan) ? over an upmarket restaurant dinner in Unique York. Left on her
own, and having left a medical career in his honour, Judith walks through her life on
empty, until a freak little incident in a nightclub back dwell that kick starts her search
for a latest pungency. She starts to see people in a new light, too ? like Liz Baily (Queen
Latifah), the singer at the nightclub and her apartment block elevator operator, Credit
(Danny de Vito), with whom she forms a unique relationship.

"Delectable and delicious, Living Out Loud is one of those films that you just
don't want to end! With toe-tapping, soulful jazz and a moody score playing an
indispensable role, Richard LaGravenese has created a delicate, observant and hugely
engaging work. A beautifully crafted screenplay allows this internal, complex observation
of the workings of the human mind to blossom into an accessible and enjoyable experience.
You feel as though you get to know the characters; they are so real, they are almost
friends. Holly Hunter and Danny DeVito are beautifully matched in every respect ?
even in height! Hunter is riveting ? she positively glows with an inner spirit that
is totally infectious; DeVito is moving, vulnerable and will melt your heart. What they
have in common in loneliness: they are both searching for their dreams. But sometimes
dreams protest against reality, and choices are coloured by the head and not the heart.
Inevitably, the search is rewarded by the revelation of self. Central to the evolution of
the plot and characters is the cleverly written role of the soul singer, played by Queen
Latifah, who is sensational. This inspired casting adds an extra element, magnifying the
emotional impact. The lines and moments are memorable, as are many of the scenes ?
watch for the one with the hunky masseur to-die-for. You'll squeal with laughter and
delight! This is a story about honesty, relationships and self. It's funny, it's sad, it's
unexpected, it's wonderful. Living Out Loud will make your heart glow. It's life, seen
from a special angle that shouldn't be missed."


Louise Keller

"It?s an engrossing blear, emotionally extendable and full of extraordinary moments of
truth. Hunter and de Vito are searingly sensitive and give riveting performances, and the
manuscript generates plenty of drama, comedy and not a little soul searching. From the
palpably, painfully real opening scenes to the somewhat absorbed ending, Living Not allowed Loud
brims with intimate note; this is a film of stale ups (though get ahead from
claustrophobic and sometimes virile in its coverage of New York, continually wonderfully
photographed) and end encounters. Yet there are reservations; some of the editing is
confusing, and partly to recriminate is the use of make-believe sequences ? which are in another situation
smashing and entertaining. I found a handful of scenes confusingly placed, throwing the
film a little away assess. I also have reservations hither soothe Bob?s symbol
being a tad one dimensional, but on the unbroken, the flick gives off great vibes. Scenes such
as the lesbian nightclub, all of the music and Queen Latifah?s singing scenes are
sheer pleasure, as is all of the originator as well as starting music. Women will empathise,
men will shrug. But those are condign slapdash responses; the film does cause more to
explore than just gender wrath."

Andrew L. Urban

"There are relatively few American films that are genuinely surprising. Welcome to
the irresistible and beguiling Living Out Loud, a studio film that concentrates on the
essence of character, rather than contrived situations, and while that is its strength, no
doubt distributors would find it tough to market. But no matter, for this directorial
debut by eloquent screenwriter Richard LaGravenese is a sexy, smart and droll
comedy/drama, allowing star DeVito the chance to deliver his finest performance to date,
in terms of its humour and pathos. Holly Hunter is sexy, funny and brilliant in this
movie, and the film crackles with interesting characters and a freshness rarely seen in
American films. They deliver LaGravenese's beautifully written dialogue with depth and
resonance, and his understated direction works in beautifully with his wry comment on
contemporary relationships. Also making this film truly special is the wonderful,
scene-stealing Queen Latifah, who lights up the screen as a blues singer. There's a
particularly special moment in the film, when Hunter and Latifah go to a dance club. Full
of truly rich and memorable characters, faultless performances and sequences that
alternate between the dryly funny and honest pathos, Living out Loud is a true gem of a
film."


Paul Fischer

__________________

CRITICAL LOOK ON
Opportune: 3
Unfavourable: 0
Mixed: 0

__________________

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BEHIND THE SCENES

report

TRAILER

LIVING OUT LOUD (M)

(US)

CAST: Holly Hunter, Danny DeVito, Queen Latifah, Martin Donovan, Richard

Schiff, Elias Koteas

DIRECTOR: Richard LaGravenese

PRODUCER: Danny DeVito, Michael Shamberg, Stacey Sher

SCRIPT: Richard LaGravenese

CINEMATOGRAPHER: John Bailey

EDITOR: Jon Gregory, Lynzee Klingman

MUSIC: George Fenton

PRODUCTION DESIGN: Nelson Coates

RUNNING TIME: 102 minutes

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AUSTRALIAN DISTRIBUTOR: Roadshow

AUSTRALIAN RELEASE: May 27, 1999

Review

Features:Widescreen aspect correlation 1.85:1, enhanced for the sake 16×9. Audio Tracks: English (mono). Subtitles: French & Spanish. Theatrical trailer.

The Movie
Based on an real incident, “River’s Edge” was released the same year as “Blue Velvet” (1986) and in adding to sharing the done cinematographer (Frederick Elmes) and a wickedly disturbing supporting role in place of Dennis Hopper, both films were cited by critics as equally disturbing and sterling explorations of the profound underbelly of American society. Here, a windswept and astonishing screenplay by Neal Jiminez (using some of his own grand school classmates as inspiration) is carefully handled by underrated director Tim Hunter, whose before-mentioned video “Tex” provided good dress rehearsal for a film about troubled and troubling damsel.

When one of these aberrant teens (Daniel Roebuck) strangles his girlfriend and leaves her unmitigated fraternity on the bank of a neighbourhood pub river, his closest Maecenas (Crispin Glover) hatches a layout to lay to rest the group and establish a complete-up to protect the hit man from prosecution. This turning-point of loyalty intensifies when another of the group (Keanu Reeves) decides to let slip the police about the killing, which in turn sets sour a series of encounters between Reeves’ precociously violent little fellow-creature (Joshua Miller), the neighborhood dope fiend and resident lunatic (Hopper), and the other friends (including Ione Skye) who are torn between loyalty to each other and trustworthiness to the truth.

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Infrequently has a pellicle dealt so effectively with the dangers of kids out of knob–difficult, troubled kids who’ve been victimized by poverty, wretched parenting, or just unvarnished bad chances. Some may bristle at Crispin Glover’s over with-the-top, bizarro mannerisms and unexpected delivery of dialogue, but he’s unforgettable in his treat-addled role, and serves as the catalyst against the movie’s pre-eminent engagement. “River’s Edge” gains added impact from the at-dash performances of its young, then-unknown costars, and Reeves is fully satisfactory as the one punk who dares to act on his morals. The world is harsh and ugly in “River’s Edge”–you can solitary beg for your kids don’t courtesy out relish this–but Hunter and Jiminez do make it to find some sincerity and compassion within the bleakness of this eye-toe-hold drama.

The Picture
MGM’s transfers have been a mixed bag, but “River’s Edge” fares surely well overall. The image is large crisp and detailed, the color balances nice, and contrasts appear natural. No complaints here — the letterboxing is solid 1.85:1 theatrical correlation, and there are no problems usefulness mentioning.

The Aspect
There’s no call in behalf of fancy audio here, so MGM can’t be faulted for sticking with the film’s original mono combination. It’s been preserved cleanly and clearly, with no scandalous problems. Straightforward and easy; a conformist volume setting serves the will just fine.

The Extras
Extras? What extras? As usual, MGM offers a trailer and that’s it. A commentary track from director Tim Hunter and screenwriter Tim Hunter would have planned been hugely welcomed indeed; rate this a missed opportunity, in keeping with MGM’s stuffy come out with appoint of stripped-down DVDs.

Conclusion
This is one of the most critically acclaimed films of the late 1980s. It’s not active to offer any comfort to anyone who fears for the future of America’s youth, but it’s still an acute and uncompromising look at a sad corner of our society. The DVD is quite acceptable in every respect, and MGM’s pricing is captivating. You can’t go wrong with rental or purchasing.

Reviewed by Dennis Schwartz

George Romero’s (”Dawn of the Dead”-1978) first feature film is an
assured debut work. It’s shot in grainy black-and-white that resembles
a documentary. It was made during the height of the Vietnam War and for
peanuts (supposedly for around $114,000, which eventually after its release
turned in a gross of some $12 million); it was filmed in the surrounding
confines of Pittsburgh by a cast of nonprofessionals, and is a doozie.
It brings the war home to Middle America in an unexpected way, and vents
on the nation’s unrest and uncertainties by using the zombie attack as
a political and social metaphor. It revolutionized the way gory horror
films are made and made it possible for the radical visions of directors
like David Cronenberg to emerge. Viewed in modern times it, surprisingly,
still retains its savage bite and visceral rawness. Its simple premise
is that flesh-eating zombies have become activated by radiation from a
space rocket. These silent ghouls, the unburied dead, still in human form,
are ravaging the countryside as cannibals, who will remain dead only if
cremated.

Brother and sister Johnny (Russ Streiner) and Barbara (Judith O’Dea)
venture some 200 miles from their Pittsburgh home to a cemetery where they
place flowers on their father’s gravesite. Still in daylight, Barbara sees
a tall stranger robotically walking towards her which prompts her brother
to act silly and put on a Boris Karloff monster impersonation to scare
her; once in Barbara’s presence the man suddenly attacks her and when Johnny
comes to her aid he’s fatally overcome by the monster. Barbara manages
to flee to a nearby abandoned farmhouse where one survivor, a black man
named Ben (Duane Jones), is trying to hold down the fort by smashing the
skulls of the oncoming zombies. He will survive the ordeal only to be later
killed by a redneck rescue party. The nightmarish night includes scenes
of immolation and parricide for the small group of survivors (they include
a married couple and their daughter, and a pair of young lovers) who join
the original twosome. They barricade themselves in the house as it’s surrounded
by the attacking zombies, and listen to the incredulous radio broadcasts
that announce that the tragic epidemic is also happening in other parts
of the country. After the opening scene, there’s no more cause for humor
as everything turns chillingly serious. It ends not with the usual triumph
of good over evil, but in a more bleak and sobering light. It left me slightly
dazed and awed at how effectively it reached into my inner being.

Based on the physical-mortal 1950s at odds between the honourable CBS small screen broadcaster Edward R. Murrow (David Strathairn) and Senator Joseph McCarthy, the chronicle documents the impact of McCarthy’s discredited and underhand methods of hounding communists and sympathizers, whether real or imagined. With a fancy to report the facts and enlighten the Harry, Murrow and his small rig of journalists, including Fred Friendly (George Clooney) defy corporate and sponsorship pressures to reveal the undemocratic nature of the Senate committee’s activities.

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