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chaney1888
Reviews
Inception (2010)
Vacuous
No, not intellectually: there's tons of thought (or at least editing) going on in this film. But there's no characterization, there's no heart (Leo's one anguished cry of "Jesus, noooo!" isn't "heart," it's badly directed overacting), and, worst of all, there's no morality.
I'm an ill-tempered, outspoken, foul-mouthed termagant (that by way of explanation for those about to call me a right-winger, a teabagger, or a prude), but when I watched this thing I was dumbstruck not on an intellectual level (oh, golly gee, we're dream-diving! Like in "The Matrix," only inside brains instead of a mainframe! Wow. Uh, sure.) but on a moral one. See, the film has NO PROTAGONIST. It has criminals, it has those who facilitate those criminals' activities, and it has a victim. That's all.
And, yes, I had-- and have-- a real (or is that "real"-- see, I'm of the camp that thinks the whole sorry mess took place in Cobb's bigger mess of a head) problem with that.
Almost no one (I would have opted for a plain, sweeping "No one," no "almost," but I recall one review among dozens and dozens that hit on what I'm about to say) seems to see anything wrong with the idea that Cobb and his crew are (ostensibly-- pretermitting for the time being the perpetual argument regarding whether the whole sorry scenario is or isn't a dream) performing an act of mental violation on an innocent man. Why is this? The action isn't that impressive (even the infamous hotel-corridor sequence)-- yes, Nolan does "loud" and "in your face" very well, but the Bond films have been doing more breathtaking and cleanly shot action work for four decades now. (I actually laughed out loud when Cobb and Arthur, decked out in pimp-fashion leather coats and stocking masks, shouted threats at kidnapped Robert Fischer in a dream-warehouse-- not, of course, to be confused with a warehouse of dreams (that might invoke imagination): what, you couldn't just have your goons strong-arm a kidnappee in the "real" world, Nolan? This is as creative as you can get?) We can't just proffer "Cobb must see his kids again at any cost!" as an excuse-- or can we? (I would certainly hope not.) Is it because Fischer is a Caucasian businessman, and therefore intrinsically deserving of attack in this economically volatile era? (The argument that Fischer's business rival Saito is somehow bravely trying to prevent Fischer from forming a monopoly is weak at best: that's what anti-monopoly laws are for, and, by agreeing to attack Fischer on Saito's behalf, Cobb is merely enabling Saito to form a monopoly of his own. And, seriously, inception and/or extraction would be ridiculously iffy forms of espionage. Break into the safe inside my skull, Cobb my boy, and enjoy the five hundred verses of "I'm 'Enry the Eighth, I Am" I've got planted there.) Or is it, possibly worst of all, because Cobb and his goons "kindly" leave Fischer with happy thoughts of his coldhearted father? (From monopolies to psychiatry, then: if Robert Fischer has daddy issues, that's what analysts are for. Cobb and his stampeding creeps are in Fischer's mind to commit a crime; any "resolution" they provide him is a byproduct of that crime, and resoundingly, cruelly false.)
We might argue that Cobb and his crew are anti-heroes, but they're not. "The Dirty Dozen" are anti-heroes, criminals and psychopaths nonetheless working for the forces of good by fighting an evil greater than themselves (that evil being the nasty Nazis); Dom Cobb is nothing more than a thief (and, despite the ad copy, not a very good one) perpetrating an insidious act of mental rape against an innocent man (and, by extension, all those who rely on that innocent man's business for their livelihoods). Why all the sympathy for this thug and his crew? What's the catch? When children are involved, or when guilt (real or imagined) is in the mix, are we just supposed to chuck morality out the window...? (The last sad thing, I guess: No one on the team, not even newbie Ariadne-- and, granted, she's likely either a figment of Cobb's imagination, like the story as a whole, or a plant-- questions the "right" of what they're doing. Not only does this make me deeply uncomfortable, it's incredibly shallow writing. An opportunity for character development, tossed. But that's classic Nolan, isn't it? If he can't cover it with an iconic grunt-- "She was lovely," Arthur deadpans to Ariadne, when Ariadne asks what nasty dream-shade Mal was like when she was alive (heck, Arthur, she's still, technically, "lovely"; we were looking for maybe just a touch of explanation here regarding her relationship with Cobb and the team, big boy)-- it doesn't get covered.) Or, in the end, are we just supposed to excuse the immorality of the situation by saying, "Ha! It's all a dream anyway!"? Very much bothered by this, especially since this behemoth has gulped down some one billion dollars in box-office take worldwide....
... and that's why I'm giving it two stars. Cillian Murphy looks very nice in his natty suits, and he cries very prettily before Nolan realizes that-- horrors!-- someone is emoting on screen, and jerk-cuts away. Marion Cotillard does her best to squeeze dimensionality from yet another one-d Nolan-woman part; as Mal, she's a sad, psychotic, lovely mess. One star for each of them. As for the rest of it: what a pathetic reflection on values, and what a lousy story. Excellent snow-job, Mr. Nolan, but no star for you.
The Edge of Love (2008)
With "friends" like these, who needs the Wehrmacht...?
This will be rough and tumbly, as I've just watched the film under less-than-ideal (ahem) circumstances. Let me say first off that I feel sorry for fans of Dylan Thomas: Matthew Rhys is charming beneath his mop of dark curls, his eyes twinkle with mischief, and his expressive voice lends itself well to what few lines of Thomas's poetry he recites, but Dylan Thomas as a character in this film is such an abominable wastrel and a cad that at best he's Satan with a pot-belly and a Welsh accent.
Apologies, too, for this being all over the map. What doesn't work about the film, or seems to work against the filmmakers' intent: Dylan the cad, as above noted. Then the "friendship" between Caitlin Thomas and Vera Phillips, which seems pasted into the film from a photoshoot of Forties style between Sienna Miller (Irish accent off-and-on, and perpetually atrocious) and Keira Knightley (in full shrill-and-brittle mode, right up until the last twenty minutes). In declaring herself "an independent woman" to her admirer and future husband William Killick (Cillian Murphy, and more on him below), she seems to be speaking-- abrasively-- from some future era of organized feminism, a young woman of the Sixties dropped into the Blitz. In film time, Killick's patience with her outlasted mine by about an hour and ten minutes.
Other unworkables: A most unconvincing Blitz. I know that the war isn't the focus of the film, and they had to be shooting on a tight budget, but the grainy newsreel bits just don't cut it. (Nor, especially, does a flashback sequence toward the end, shot to look like an old home movie-- and where, I wondered, did they get the color film stock for those home movies when color film was being rationed even to the major studios?-- which comes off as saccharine and desperate.) Killick, waging war in a Greece that looks exactly like the shale quarry used in any thousand old Doctor Who episodes, doesn't fare much better, but the shock and resolute terror in Murphy's extraordinary blue eyes lend a jarring reality to the material.
Another shortfall: There's no story, really, no arc. There's a dramatic "bump" in the last reel, but all in all it's the rambling tale of two ostensibly despicable people (those being Dylan and Caitlin) who sponge off a truly decent person (poor Bill Killick) through the medium of a person who ought to know better, and who may or may not deserve to profit from the lesson she learns about love and fidelity en route (that, of course, being Vera).
A final grumble, and one that might sound perverse: if those involved in a production feel uncomfortable about staging intimate scenes, might we please return to the dignified days of the discreet fade-out? Not that simulated intercourse isn't ever less than awkward on screen, but if you must resort to shooting a love scene in a way that makes it seem as if we're watching the participants-- here Vera and William-- through a kaleidoscope, then please: cut the scene or call for a rewrite.
What works: The film looks good, in a can-do Masterpiece Theatre way. The Welsh coast is stunning and bleak, all misty light. Keira Knightley's singing voice is surprisingly sweet (which gives one hope that she won't do too great a disservice to "My Fair Lady"). Ms. Knightley herself, despite her prickly defensiveness in the film's early scenes, exhibits a quiet strength and maturity toward the end: a new thing for her, and most refreshing.
But the show belongs to Cillian Murphy. I think this is his best role to date. From the dashing romanticism of Killick in the film's early scenes to the battle-stunned soldier-come-home later on, he brings true shading and subtlety to the film. More importantly, he brings humanity. Dylan sweet-talks most effectively (he's a writer, after all), but the poetry of the film lies in William. He's the angel to Thomas's demon, and without him "The Edge of Love" would be a sad, bitter, ultimately pointless affair.
Sunshine (2007)
I couldn't find the "off" switch for my brain
Two things up front: Firstly, anyone who's read this far into the reviews knows the plot of this thing (astronauts chucking a bomb-- if not themselves-- into the dying sun in order to revive it). Secondly, the following is as disjointed as the film it addresses.
So many glowing reviews I've read for "Sunshine" seem to center around the idea that one must simply give in to the power and majesty of the film's visuals. That is to say, one must in the presence of "Sunshine" emphasize oohing and ahhing over thinking.
I'm sorry: I can't do that. Ironically, if "Sunshine" were being touted as a dumb bit of fluff, I'd be far more likely to take it at face value. But "Sunshine"'s makers and culties have trumpeted their darling as a slice of intelligent sci-fi, oh-so-rare these days, etc.
Frankly, it's not. That "intelligent" thing. Not a bit of it.
Thoughts: If you hire a physicist to act as a consultant on your film, and if your screenwriter concocts backstories for your characters, and if you house your actors in bare-bones student digs and send them up in airplanes that permit them to experience zero-g, all so that they feel like "real" astronauts, and if all that consulting and all those stories and all that experience don't end up on the screen-- i.e., if you expect us viewers to mine the film's websites for this science and these tales-- then you as a filmmaker (that means you, Mr. Boyle) haven't done your job. Simple.
We don't know who these characters are, so we don't care about them. Sure, Rose Byrne has her teary brown doe-eyes, so she captures an instant sympathy vote, and Hiroyuki Sanada draws us in with his calm and his silky voice. But the rest of 'em? Cillian Murphy comes off as a stoner and a bit of a jerk, and Chris Evans tries desperately to make something of the "duty" card he's been dealt, but the rest of 'em are ciphers. Alex Garland seems to think that character development is for sissies-- or that it's certainly not important if you have a Big Idea (here "Our Lives Are Secondary to the Saving of All Humanity, Dontchaknow"). I politely suggest that he's dead wrong. If we don't give a rat's patootie about the characters, we certainly won't care about the idea in the service of which they're acting.
And not only are they ciphers: they're inconsistent, too. Early on, Mace goads Capa, the only one capable of operating the stellar bomb (in itself a ridiculous idea: what, in sixteen months, Capa couldn't train a backup to turn the key and press the "LAUNCH" button? Job security, I guess.), into performing a highly dangerous repair job outside the ship. Then, later, when he and Capa and another of the Icarus II's hapless crew must execute an ill-advised human-cannon trick between two crippled airlocks (a situation that falls squarely between "Don't ask." and "What the hell?"), Mace insists that Capa take the only available spacesuit, as he's indispensable to the mission. Sure, Mace earlier may have been feeling piqued and petty, Capa having pulled a bit of a careless dumb with regard to their window for sending messages home, but the fact here is that it's not my job to make Mace's excuses. It's Mr. Garland's job, and his script simply doesn't deliver.
Don't try to cover up the paper-thinness of your story by snowing us with special effects. It's insulting and annoying. Just how many useless beauty shots of the Icarus II does this movie contain, anyway? Not one of them helps us to know where we are on the ship. Also: if you can't afford the effects you wanted for your third-act mad slasher (did I already mention the "Don't ask." thing?), don't try to cover by shaking the camera and overexposing your shots every time said slasher is on screen. That takes "annoying" clear up to "blatantly irritating."
Smart people creating jeopardy by making dumb choices or nonsensically arbitrary decisions is less likely to evoke sympathy than smart people who find themselves in peril because of natural disasters or mechanical catastrophes. That is, a supposedly smart guy who makes a calculation that leads to half a spaceship going up in flames is less likely to earn a "You poor people!" from me than, say, a freak solar flare that leads to half of said spaceship going up in flames. And have I mentioned yet how much I despise selectively "smart" computers? As in, a computer that talks to you and calls you by name and yet can't tell you when half your spaceship has just caught on fire? (Not that it's entirely the computer's fault here, the fire thing: it happens during one of "Sunshine"'s many randomly placed beauty shots, so it's quite likely that the computer, like the viewing audience, isn't sure if the ship that catches fire is actually the Icarus II, the ship on which Our Story is taking place. "Oh, look: there's a ship on fire over there. Hey-- do you smell smoke...?")
Selective flammability: Not only do Capa and the film's Mystery Slasher not burn up when Capa, hoping to effect a desperate getaway, yells "Full sunlight!" in the observation lounge of the Icarus II, the lounge itself doesn't burn up. By comparison, when the show's nutter psychologist (again: don't ask) tries the "full sunlight" thing, he burns up just fine, thank you.
So: who gets the star? It's a split: Chris Evans, who tries so desperately to be the voice of reason (if only for a moment) on this ship of fools, and Underworld and John Murphy, who were obviously watching a much more intelligent, moving, and dramatic film when they concocted the score.
Even though it's rare to see a movie so lovingly misconceived, you'd be wise to give this a miss. Dumb, depressing, muddled, and thoroughly unentertaining.