Strange Impersonation

The Joker Scores

I'm still trying to take in all of Christopher Nolan's The Dark Knight -- a movie I watched just a few days ago in IMAX-- and this is a good thing. A very good thing. The movie sticks with you, gets under your skin in ways that surprise you hours later and, even better (or worse, depending on your mood) makes you ponder everything from the hypocritical nature of mankind to current politics to...ah yes, the tragic loss of Heath Ledger -- something that's even more potentely poigant while watching this wonderfully dark picture.

As I had mourned earlier in an essay on Ledger, we've lost one of the greats. (So be warned, this isn't exactly a strict movie review, but a celebration of Ledger's performance. I keep recalling James Dean's brilliance in his last movie, Giant, a picture in which he too revealed his transformative powers by going from gorgeous young man to bitter, old drunk....my god...the loss.)

The usual suspects are present of course: a fantastic Christian Bale -- one of the greatest actors working -- as Bruce Wayne, the legendary, sweet Michael Caine, the wonderfully understated Gary Oldman (playing a nice guy -- I love it) and the always perfect Morgan Freeman (can that man possibly achieve a bad performance?). Also appearing is Maggie Gyllenhaal, who replaces Katie Holmes as Rachel Dawes (Gyllenhaal is a vast improvement -- intelligent and slinky -- you totally understand why a guy who can get whatever he wants, wants her). There's also Aaron Eckhart as District Attorney Harvey Dent -- primed to become Two Face and again, a brilliant, crazed and yet, oddly soulful Ledger.

Which brings me to the heart of the, at times, sublime The Dark Knight -- as Ledger's Joker shows us (and forces upon Harvey Dent), the world is a place of two faces, of darkness and light, of organization and chaos. Gotham City's criminal underbelly is a reflection of a world we sometimes walk through with willfull ignorance, not realizing we are part of such chaos and destruction. Or, at the very least, we allow it to happen around us -- as long as we're warned.

The Joker doesn't want us to be warned -- he thrives on chaos, cannot be bought and has no glorious plan. He's the Tyler Durden of Super-villains and, as such, will become something of a cult figure with this character. His philosophy isn't exactly a new one (watch some film noir for prime examples) but Nolan and Ledger make it fresh and inspired. And since these ideas are universal, it's hard to not understand where The Joker is coming from. At times (and this might be a stretch for some, but not for me) it's even hard to dislike him. At times I fought the urge of punching my fist in the air in anarcharic solidarity -- Ledger's Joker is my new evil hero. He's a psycho sexy beast of destruction. Believe the hype -- he's that great.

Bale is terrific in The Dark Knight, but this is Ledger's movie all the way. Watching him watch the world burn, I couldn't help but think... damn if he couldn't have returned to burn it down a little more.

Silent Snow, Savage Snow: 'Nightfall'

“This is what they call the point of no return my friend.”

Nightfall is a work of striking juxtapositions and tones that by picture end, come off like a wonderfully disarming person—you’re charmed, even a bit disturbed, but you're not sure what to make of it all. It opens at night, in the neon lit, Los Angeles jungle shimmering with welcoming Hollywood haunts like Miceli’s, Firefly and Musso and Frank and ends within the blinding white snow of the more foreboding Wyoming Wilderness. It pits an older doctor and his much younger, artist friend against two thugs, one an over-eager, violence-lusting psychopath and the other a casual, smarter killer whose relaxed approach borders on the likable. It features a chic fashion show with a modern looking Anne Bancroft as a “mannequin” followed by a cuddly rural bus ride during which the lovers express their romantic feelings after waking up to (decidedly non chic) whiskers. There’s cruel violence committed against good Samaritans mixed with quippy one liners and a surprising amount of dark humor. And did I mention Anne Bancroft falls in love with Aldo Ray? They seem mismatched, but then, perfect together—and their moments are exceptionally romantic. In short, Nightfall is a trip. But a great trip, and a noteworthy addition to noir innovator Jacques Tourneur’s oeuvre (which includes, among other splendid pictures, the horror/noir classics Cat People and  I Walked With a Zombie and his key noir, Out of the Past).

Adapted by Stirling Silliphant from hard boiled writer David Goodis's 1947 novel and brilliantly shot by Burnett Guffey (who also shot Nicholas Ray’s masterpiece In a Lonely Place and Arthur Penn’s ingenious Bonnie and Clyde, as well as other magnificent movies),the picture is considered by some, a minor film noir, something that’s always baffled me. Made in the later cycle of the genre (released in 1957), the picture skillfully weaves a convoluted story, harsh violence, existential angst, naturalistic acting and sweet romanticism without ever feeling forced. And as stated earlier—it’s very funny—something Tourneur always intended.  And though the theme song seems a bit overheated (Al Hibler crooning “Nightfall…and you!”—a tune that really ought to grace a Ross Hunter production) even that works when looking at the film in its entirety. Akin to the startling laughs spiking the movie, it echoes Tourneur’s own sly sense of humor. 

The story is structured much like Out of the Past, with our hero (who's not guilty, unlike Mitchum), Rayburn Vanning (Ray) relating his complicated story to a woman. Only in this instance, the lovely lady, Marie Gardner (Bancroft), is a bit confused. Pulling a damsel in distress act for the benefit of two thugs waiting to jump Ray (she thought they were police officers after a wanted man), she sets up the poor lug.  Vanning is then accosted by Red (Rudy Bond) and John (Brian Keith) and taken to a deserted oil derrick (an unsettling yet weirdly amusing scene) where he’s set to be tortured. They want to know where that money’s hidden, something Vanning continually states he doesn’t know.  Vanning escapes, finds his way to Marie’s apartment and gives her the skinny. Or rather, the thick skinny. 

He explains the convoluted predicament that’s left him understandably paranoid.  While on a pleasant camping trip in Jackson Hole, Wyoming with best friend Dr. Edward Gurston (Frank Albertson) in which the two men will hunt, and in a more uncomfortable moment, near the sticky subject of Doc’s much younger wife (whom we learn later has a thing for Vanning and sent him letters saying so). The conversation is cut short when a car crashes off an embankment and two shady characters (Red and John), emerge. Doc fixes John’s arm but they soon realize they’re unlucky witnesses (the men just robbed a bank). Almost shockingly, Doc is shot dead and Vanning is left injured. The crooks blaze off, only, they make an enormous mistake—they grab the doctor’s bag instead of their own bag of money. Vanning is able to rise from his injury, hide the dough and take off. Moving from town to town under suspicion that he killed Doc, Vanning ends up in Los Angeles, where he’s being tailed by insurance investigator Ben Fraser (James Gregory) who confesses to his wife that Vanning just doesn’t seem the type.

And as played by Aldo Ray—he doesn’t seem the type. One of the more striking aspects to Nightfall is its casting, and the barrel-chested, thick necked Ray, who was a natural born actor (watch his first and largely unschooled leading role in George Cukor’s The Marrying Kind and you’ll see how immediately gifted the man was. Also in Anthony Mann’s brilliant Men in War.) Ray is the perfect good guy in-over-his- head. With his raspy voice, yet boyish appeal (he looked like he literally walked off a football field, which is why Cukor made him take ballet before The Marrying Kind) Ray always exuded a different kind of mystery than say, Mitchum or Ryan or Widmark—men who rarely appeared “normal.” Ray, an ex Frogman who fought in Iwo Jima, was a brawny man’s man certainly, but he always looked to be hiding a secret. That inside he had the soul of a poet or artist—a man of depth beyond his tough exterior. And so, appropriately, in Nightfall, he’s an artist.

Brian Keith is another standout and like Ray, an actor I always wished was my father (and not merely for the TV show A Family Affair). He’s so agreeable here—and his delivery manages to be both distracted and pithy rather than rat-a-tat. When he humorously claims that Red’s homicidal kicks stem from his lack of childhood play (“When Red was a kid they didn’t have enough playgrounds. He’s sort of an adult delinquent.”) he’s both revelatory and teasing. And his banter towards Red is cleverly berating: “The top of your head never closed up when you were a kid. Neither did your mouth.”  Cracking wise with Red, the two spar like men who are ready to kill each other, but also who are simply getting on each other’s nerves (preceding some of Tarantino’s talky criminals). But talking aside, deadlier fates await them including a fatal gunshot and death by snowplow.

And wild, almost ridiculous fate was something Tourneur excelled at, not surprisingly. Based on the bizarre treatment at the hands of his filmmaker father, Tourneur developed a dark sense of the absurd. As written in John Wakemen’s “Film Directors Vol. 1 1890-1946,” Tourneur believed that the childhood he endured—one of “grotesque punishment” lied at the root of his cinematic obsessions. Relating that he was sent to a poor school and teased unmercifully for his square suspenders , Tourneau claimed: “I think this is what prompted me to introduce comic touches into the dramatic moments of my films…Mixing fear and the ridiculous can be very exciting.”

Indeed they can. As Red can’t wait to torture a terrified Vanning, he sinisterly and bizarrely sings: “The tougher they are the more fun they are tra-la.”

Re-published from my piece at Noir of the Week.

Also, read just how obsessed I am with Nightfall, like, breaking and entering obsessed.

The Movie That Got Away: 'The Woman Chaser'

You can’t quite get your hands around The Woman Chaser, and that’s all for the good.

It’s a heap of contradictions that absolutely refuses to be compartmentalized. You’ll either love this slice of humorous sociopathic angst (and yes, in The Woman Chaser, there is such a thing as sociopathic angst) or (as some critics did) attempt to corner it as something it’s not. What it is, is vintage Charles Willeford (who was also adapted in two other underrated classics— Monte Hellman’s Cockfigher and George Armitages’s Miami Blues) and so true to the author that his widow approved every frame of this underseen treasure.

Directed by Robinson Devor, whose only credit up to this point was a wonderfully weird 30 minute documentary about Hollywood billboard phenomena Angelyne (he has since directed the infamous horse sex documentary, Zoo. You can’t say Devor isn’t multi-faceted) The Woman Chaser is something of a lost film. Released in 1999, the picture is still only available on VHS (no DVD was ever released) and even that’s out of print.  For whatever reason the picture hasn’t been released, regrettable for all those viewers who missed the picture in theaters. It’s an unnerving, hilarious slice Los Angeles life and wildly unique on top.

Adapted from pulp novelist Willeford’s 1960 novel of the same name and filmed (gorgeously) in a black and white transfer (from a color print), The Woman Chaser is faithful to its beautifully seedy genre. It’s serious, to a point, but never plays it straight, always aiming for a cockeyed joke that’s both reflexive and perfectly in tune with the picture. And yet, somehow it manages to refrain from something that’s especially annoying when it comes to film noir (probably my favorite genre of film) — tired ironic send-up. I can only imagine how tough it was to craft such an arch, subversive film that remains, to the very last frame, weirdly understated, but Devor is intelligent and talented enough to handle the task.

The story begins circa 1960 with grifter Richard Hudson (a brilliant Patrick Warburton, best known from Seinfeld and The Tick) fresh from San Francisco, purchasing a used car dealership in his hometown of Los Angeles. He’s a gifted, unscrupulous salesman (“anyone and everyone can be bought” he believes) who makes his dealers wear Santa Claus suits in the middle of summer. Richard preys on people’s vulnerabilities with a twisted logic that’s too complex to classify as mere evil—it's some personality quirk that’s all his own (for instance, he seduces an old woman collecting pennies for the church and also beds a near girl with churlish indifference). With obvious Oedipal fixation, he moves back home with Mother (Lynette Bennett), an aging beauty living in a Sunset Blvd. style mansion with her washed up Hollywood director of a husband, the gentle milquetoast Leo Steinberg (a great Paul Malevitz).

After a delicate, then frenzied (and hilarious) session of ballet dancing with Mother (one of the picture’s highlights), Richard comes to the conclusion that his life is meaningless unless he creates something ("Isn't making money the reason for existence?"). More specifically if he creates a work of art. Since other arts take too much time and skill to learn, Richard reckons that writing and directing a movie is just the thing. Convincing Leo to back him, he concocts the very Detour-esque B-noir The Man Who Got Away, a grim, existential tale about a truck driver who flees his life, then accidentally kills a little girl and is chased down by a vigilante mob. You never get to see the entire picture, but what you witness looks to be either overwrought crap or soulful, gritty brilliance. I choose to think the latter.

Releasing the picture proves difficult as it clocks in at 63 minutes (too short for theater s and too long for television), but Richard will not compromise—he will not cut or lengthen the thing and so, well, I won’t reveal what happens. The actions, philosophizing and points of Richard moving from conception to actual filmmaking are too intriguing to spoil, but one thing is for certain: Richard is a born auteur. He’s also a cold blooded narcissist (“To me!” he toasts while dipping in a pool) but a sensitive lug in moments of stress—somehow the son of a bitch cries, endearingly believably.

But then that could be an act—you have no idea with this character. Thanks to the refreshingly barrel-chested Warburton and his bombastic,  staccato yet wry and enigmatic performance, the picture delivers an off-kilter world where absurd, scummy and sublime intermingle right on the edge. His performance lives in a movie that reveals a fascinating, yet strangely familiar insanity true to the spirit of Los Angeles where you can feel violated, entertained and inspired in the same twenty minutes.

Sophisticated and kookily innovative, Devor’s direction isn’t simply retro-nostalgia showing off its lovely mid century modern architecture and kitsch (though that is lovingly filmed).  No, the City of Angels is a slick, rotting kingdom of scrubbed up close-ups, skewed angles—a twisted, cocky and wormy land that will fight your creativity and vision at any chance. With that, violently defending your work (which Richard does—and that’s all I will say) is the wicked solution but in the end, oddly inspirational.

Bugs In The Belfry: The Crazy Genius Of 'Bug'

“Guess I’d rather talk with you about bugs than with nothing to nobody.”

There’s a moment in Bug during which I was so significantly moved, I almost crumbled in my theater seat. It comes when Agnes (Ashley Judd), the worn out, drug abusing, but still beautiful (in that way only certain kinds of damaged women can be) realizes she might be a alone again. As her newfound future partner in psychosis, Peter (Michael Shannon) leaves her; she closes herself in her seedy motel bathroom and sobs. In spite of presenting herself as a tough cookie—she needs this guy. He’s a lot smarter and sensitive than her ex-husband (a bullying, abusive Harry Connick Jr.) and in spite of some of his crazy rants, she likes the way he talks.

And then…he returns (“I don’t want to go”) and reveals his distinctly special problem. The reunion of these lovers is so weirdly romantic and such a relief, that you almost forget it will be poor Agnes’ undoing. If love is mad, if love is crazy, then Agnes and Peter are, as Laura Dern stated, “wild at heart and weird on top.”

So begins their folie à deux but one that moves beyond these lost soul’s tortured union and into modern ideas of conspiracies, post war insanity, disease, infected blood and the kind of paranoia that can spread like wildfire once the flame is (quite literally) ignited. And of course, it’s also about bugs, aphids to be specific, though they’re not swooping down on the pair a la Mimic—they’re horrifyingly in their blood, brain, skin, teeth and, even more terrifying, we can’t see them. We simply have to believe. Or rather, we have to want to believe. I certainly wanted to believe, just so these people’s lives would make sense.

Directed by William Friedkin and adapted from Tracy Letts’s stage play, Bug is a movie that will baffle, excite, horrify and anger those who can’t stay with its unwavering intensity. It may even provoke titters, and in some points, purposefully so, which should be honored rather than mocked. Bug is a rare picture that balances realistic, literal psychological horror with metaphorical meaning with small punches of satirical wit.  It’s nothing like you’ve ever seen and so skillfully, artfully executed and so brilliantly acted (especially by Judd ) that the result is less movie and more wide awake fever dream. If you can relate to paranoia and desperate love in any way, you will meld into this movie—and that only lends to its horror.  It is (I’m not going to mince words here), a masterpiece.

The drama begins via the way most people hook up—through a friend. Judd’s Agnes meets Shannon’s Peter after her lesbian friend R.C. (Lynn Collins) introduces the two and drops him at Agnes’s depressing hovel. She’s immediately intrigued but aware he’s a bit strange (after overhearing the women argue about his weirdness, he repeats “I’m not an axe murderer”).  He admits that he makes others uncomfortable (“I pick up things unapparent”) but Agnes is refreshed by his shy, though straightforward sweetness. She’s also, eventually open to his un-ending beliefs about bugs, egg-sacks, insects implanted in his body via the military or whatever else. And though she argues at first, she will more than believe, becoming necessary and complicit— partly out of love for her man, partly out of her own burgeoning psychosis (which we question is brought on by speedy drugs and her own past trauma) and partly because, well, maybe there’s something to this bug thing. She is hearing crickets in her room, she’s being bitten and helicopters are flying overhead. Or maybe not.

The fact that Friedkin leaves a small crack open for interpretation (and I really think he does—especially when the weird-o drug taking doctor comes for a visit) gives the film an extra power and poignancy. Friedkin is a master with sound (you hear those damn bugs so much they burrow into your brain too) and, when in top form, showcases a kind of visceral suspense that like The Exorcist, feeds from possession. These lovers are quite obviously, afflicted, and so the tension doesn’t come in simply their journey to the other side of sanity, it comes in how far they will go. And where will they go? And will they figure it out? And what are they going to carve out of their body next?

He also bleeds powerhouse performances from his actors, notably Judd, who might possibly be the greatest, bravest and most electrifying actress working. In Bug, she is sheer genius. Moving from a quiet, seen-it-all cynicism to a deranged, focused conspiratorial rambling, her transformation is without question. In her earlier moments, you can see that spark of insanity so when it blooms to full flower, you truly believe she’s exiting the smothering cocoon of her life. She’s found her purpose. She’s so good, so real, so with her character (my God, just the way Judd sits on a couch is remarkably natural) she becomes, in a tragic, twisted way, inspirational.

Some critics believe her character foolish—easily led by a sick manipulator who feeds off her to justify and complete his mental illness—but I don’t see her in such simplistic terms. The real tragedy is she’s stuck in a dead end, trashy life and like a lot of smart “crazy” people, able to make that leap, able to embrace the bizarre, able to question the very nature of things, be it love or the government or some other vast conspiracy, to the point of no return. Like the movie, Agnes knows that nothing, even bugs, can be that easy—nothing. And, depending on how you express it, knowing such complications is both comforting and crazy.

I Am Woman Hear Me Vroom--From My Huffington Post Blog

OK. So of all the filmmakers in all the world currently working, it took Quentin Tarantino to create the woman's picture I've been dying to see. Yes Sir (or Madam), Death Proof, the second half of Grindhouse, the Robert Rodriguez/Tarantino ode to the glorious cinematic sleaze of the 1960s and 1970s, is the movie that makes me believe I do indeed, roar.

Preferably in a 1970 white Dodge 440 Challenger (AKA the Vanishing Point car).

Now I state this as a surprise but, really, Tarantino got me once before. His ball busting blast of female empowerment, Kill Bill, an operatic homage to Spaghetti Westerns, yakuza pictures, Hong Kong action films, Brian De Palma, Kinji Fukusaku, Giallo and the "Twisted Nerve" of Bernard Hermann (among others genres and filmmakers and Tarantino obsessions) was also aggressively pro-female, albeit in a much more mythical manner. And that's fine. Women need their ass-kicking icons in alignment with big boys like Charles Bronson, Bruce Lee, Clint Eastwood and (oh dear lord my favorite) Lee Van Cleef. Women can't live on Tura Satana and The Long Kiss Goodnight Geena Davis alone.

But the gorgeously shot, interestingly paced and dare I say arty Death Proof put Tarantino in yet another female realm. This is a movie in which women don't wield swords crafted by Sonny Chiba, but who hang out, drink, talk, eat, listen to music (good music, no silly singing-in-their-hair dryer moment here) and in the end, drive. Pursued by a rakish turned homicidal Kurt Russell in a psycho sexual act of vehicular rape, the film's second set of fiery femmes (played by the charmingly down to earth Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Rosario Dawson, Zoe Bell and Tracie Thoms), enact their revenge on not just Russell's Stuntman Mike, but all the creeps in the world who want to forcibly, well, ram you. It's inspiring--almost overwhelmingly so--when you see real life stunt woman Zoe Bell (playing herself) strapped to that Challenger (for real) at what looks to be about 80 miles per hour and then un-strapped, clinging and climbing to that car for dear life. And damn if I didn't get goosebumps when Tracie Thoms turns that car around, continuing both one of cinema's greatest car chase sequences ever filmed and revealing the coward that Stuntman Mike really is. Now, the moving aspects to this scenario could simply be my own bias since I'm a die-hard gearhead, a proud owner of 1971 Ford Torino and almost auto-erotic when it comes to cars in cinema but I'm thinking plenty other women, regardless of their affinity for muscle mobiles, were invigorated by this sequence. And not merely for revenge, but to take in the awe inspiring stunts of Ms. Bell.

With Kill Bill and Death Proof, Tarantino is enjoying something of a women's stage in his filmmaking career. He's always been great with female characters, but, as I've said before, Death Proof further shows his merging of an almost formalistic Douglas Sirk sensibility with the raw outrageousness of Russ Meyer. And that is, in spite of what his detractors say, unique. Quentin loves his ladies, but he also honors them. And for a girl like me, a chick obsessed with movies and cars, I needed that. To this I say, thank you Mr. Tarantino. To quote the brilliant Two-Lane Blacktop, you can never go fast enough.

Originally Posted at The Huffington Post Blog

Defending '300'--From My Huffington Post Blog

Last time I checked I wasn't a 13-year-old boy. I also wasn't pro Nazi, pro War, or even excessively pro body beautiful.

So why did I like 300 so much? According to critics ranging from the Village Voice, Slate and The New York Times, liking 300 might make me a video game addicted fan boy with one foot in the closet or a full blown, "Mein Kampf" spewing Fascist.

The negative reviews regarding 300's bloody pro battle ethos have more to do with the director Zach Snyder and graphic novelist Frank Miller than my apparent lizard brain ingesting all of this mayhem and so called Fascist propaganda. According to some of these writers, I'm probably not really thinking as I watch the movie.

But here's the thing. I was thinking. I was, in fact, acutely aware of how critics and viewers would perceive the battle glory CGI beauty of the picture. I did indeed wonder if many would be offended by the depraved, unctuous Persians cast against the Spartans--that uber machine of manhood and muscle. I could already hear critics bemoaning how King Leonidas' uncommon valor would inspire teenage boys to enlist and that military folk would probably high five and cheer while watching the movie (apparently this is actually happening.).

Don't misunderstand--I've got no problem with these opinions (the strong reaction, in the end, makes the whole experience more interesting), and 300, so far isn't my favorite movie of the year (that would go to Zodiac and Black Snake Moan and at this date, Death Proof), I'm just here to say, I enjoyed 300 and I don't feel guilty about it. I was dazzled by the operatic exaltation and found it, in many ways, a depiction of not only bravery but absolute insane honor (these guys are on a suicide mission)--an honor that couldn't possibly exist today and most certainly does not resemble what's going on in Iraq. I also found the whole spectacle endlessly beautiful--and not because the Spartans were perfect specimens of manhood. I actually viewed the "degenerate" aspects gorgeous as well. The deformed, razor handed executioner, the scary mask faces of the Immortals, and of course, all the artfully rendered blood, guts and severed heads.

Read the rest of my post (and a little Fassbinder love) here. And yes, yes, I am aware the film could also be construed as homophobic. There's all kinds of homo-somethings in "300" (yet another reason I like it).

And why not? This is old news but...proof I love all those severed heads:

One Hundred Percent Edie--'Factory Girl'

Sienna Miller does a good job. Guy Pearce is a fantastic Andy Warhol.

But...

There's only one Edie.

I saw George Hickenlooper's Factory Girl when it opened at the end of last year here in Los Angeles and was simultaneously entertained and annoyed by the movie.

Though Sienna Miller does do an impressive turn as Warhol muse/youthquaker Edie Sedgwick and Guy Pearce does make for a wonderfully droll Andy, I thought the film relied too much on Edie's relationship with a certain iconic musician (Hayden Christensen doing a covert Dylan--and yes, the sex scene is unecessary) and focused on Edie, chiefly as a victim. Edie was screwed up, obviously, but was she simply a victim? No way.

If you want to learn more about her, read Jean Stein and George Plimpton's "Edie: American Girl" a groundbreaking and fascinating oral history of the beautiful Warhol superstar. In that, you see Edie as something of a Holly Golightly, a fab, endless party who attracted many but eventually wore people out and resulted in tragedy. Instead of hailing from hicksville (Golightly's secret), she was a well educated blue blood with deeply disturbing family issues (suicide, probable incest) that she both buried and, in a strange way, extolled by flitting the night away on loads of speed. But she was still a macap light that burned fast--a drug addled screwball heroine who didn't get Cary Grant or William Powell at the end of the picture. Instead, she got the Hell's Angels in California...and a boob job. And yet, even then, she was still "on," still Edie, still, in her twisted way, entertaining. It's obviously worth noting that her story was a sad one and yes, Edie was a mess, but Factory Girl never shows how endearing she could be.

That saying, I couldn't take my eyes off the picture. And I liked the use of real life Edie characters commenting on her (including Plimpton) while the credits rolled. I just wished the picture had a little more meat and fun and...fabulousness to it.

But for more pure Edie, buy Ciao! Manhattan. And listen to the commentary. You'll learn that Edie, even in her craziest state, was a lot stronger than Factory Girl leads you to believe.

The Bitch Is Back--'The Wicker Man'

"The Wicker Man" is proving what I originally wrote when I first saw the film--it's the funniest comedy of last year. So I'm returning to my original review of LaBute's re-make with some additional comments based on a fresh viewing...

Here's the deal with The Wicker Man-- if Neil LaBute intended the film to be a darkly comedic male nightmare, the kind of vision Norman Mailer wakes up to in a cold sweat, it's a smashing success. If not, I don't know what the hell to make of it. The picture sure didn't scare me (though it may scare men), but it remains weirdly entertaining and at times, hilarious. In fact, since my third viewing of the film, I find myself in the lonely position of defending the picture, albeit with many questions. Though most critics found the film laughably absurd, I think LaBute's Wicker Man might be a work of wickedly hilarious subversion. A cult classic in the making.

After all, LaBute is no stranger to pitch black comedy, particularly between the sexes. Check his Carnal Knowledge salvo's In the Company of Men, Your Friends and Neighbors, The Shape of Things and the softer, gentler Nurse Betty. All films propel the viewer into a world in which men and women say and do despicable things to one another. Because of this, LaBute's often been labeled a misogynist. I've always thought that unfair since his men are frequently worse than his women. If you remember Jason Patric's speech in Your Friends and Neighbors regarding the greatest sex of his life (it involves locker room and...rape), you'll know what I mean. And what about Nurse Betty? Greg Kinnear is the supreme ass in that scenario, not poor confused Renee Zellweger. And I tend to agree with HL Mencken when he said, "a misogynist is a man who hates women as much as women hate each other."

But The Wicker Man? Well...wow. The women making up the matriarchal community Nicolas Cage finds himself stuck in are bad. They are bad-bad. These women will break every man's spirit to the point of not allowing them to speak. Even the cute little blonde girl-children are pint sized bee-otches.

Which is why the picture is intriguing, bizarre and downright daring. Casting Cage was one weird move. Try as he might, there's nothing regular about Nicolas Cage (especially when, in one of the film's now more infamous scenes, he's donning a bear suit) and I think that's the point. When we first see his cop, he's checking out a self-help book in a diner. He's not drinking a cup of Joe or flirting with the waitress, he's thinking of ways to improve his beaten down life. After he witnesses a car accident, he's traumatized, eating psychiatric medication and sitting around his house in a daze.

Soon he's searching for the lost daughter of an ex girlfriend on a remote PNW island inhabited by a bunch of severe, hippie dippy/Amish-looking women (led by Queen Bee Ellen Burstyn) who aren't friendly and treat their few men folk like slaves. At times their community reminded me of certain gals (sorry, womyn) who taught Women's Studies at my old college, The University of Oregon (sorry, that was so easy but so true). It also recalls all those ladies who run goddess shops, wear lots of purple and glare at anyone not shopping with a cotton sack.

Or is this community of bee-keeping, white-wearing lasses an exaggerated portrait of what all women secretly desire? To tame and control their men? Is this LaBute's wickedly funny point?

Again, I don't know. Or rather, maybe I'm choosing to believe that, instead of a bad horror re-make of a cult classic (the original I won't get into but you should see), he's crafted a subversive comic polemic concerning militant feminism. I'd like to think the latter because, well, that's just a lot more interesting.

And again, a lot more amusing. Truly. Because, are we not supposed to laugh when, near the end of the film, Cage delivers a near-roundhouse kick to Leelee Sobieski's face? This nice man (and Cage gives us no reason to think he's anything but) is reduced to his most primal instinct by first punching a woman in the face (shades of Steve McQueen socking Sally Struthers in The Getaway) and in the film's second moment of shock (and humor), pulling out the karate on Sobieski. Please don't misunderstand, I'm not for smacking the ladies, but in this instance, I laughed. I laughed a lot. I also laughed heartily when a tormented Cage screams at his oppressors, "Killing me won't bring back your goddamn honey!" Or when he yammers on and on and with increased vocal volume and speed about the doll. And then there's that bear suit I was talking about....

So please, Mr. LaBute. You meant for me to laugh. Right? Because I strangely enjoyed your movie and I'm not sure if I want to discover even more flaws within myself.

But hey, I am a woman after all.

*Note: Another amusing bit of weirdness. The film is dedicated to Johnny Ramone.

*Also, watch clips of  some of the film's finest moments.

O.K. It's official: I fucking love this movie.

Girs Trying to Kick Ass--'Stick It'

Who knew gymnastics was so...counterculture?

I ask this as a joke, of course, though there's always been something different and, dare I say, weird about female competitive gymnastics. Those hard-nosed, nutty coaches; those girls giving up regular social life for perfecting a bouncy floor routine and running 50 mph towards a pummel horse; those teeny weenie muscle-bound bodies, which often appear stunted from excessive exercise. Gymnastics, though beautiful and inspiring, is definitely not the norm for young, growing girls.

Which is exactly what Jessica Bendinger attempts to tap into and, in the end, bust apart with her directorial debut, Stick It. A teen movie in which the rigid rules of gymnastics will be shaken by a brash but talented outsider, Stick It works its pseudo radical message powder-puff light. Extending a very ladylike middle finger to rules and coaches and controlling parents, the movie is well meaning, but too fluffy to be taken seriously.

But that's part of the point—this isn't Chariots of Fire for heaven's sake, it's a cute, "spunky" comedy about gymnastics. And often, in some of the film's extended and entertaining tumbling sequences, too cute for words. Leading the procession of cuteness is the film's heroine, Haley Graham (Missy Peregrym), a mixed-up teen whose considerable talent for gymnastics has been squandered by rebellious behavior and run-ins with the law. After choking and walking out on the World Championships two years ago (leading her team to lose), she's been, as one gymnast states, a "Pariah Carey." So when a court order forces her to re-enter the sport via the training school of the legendary Burt Vickerman (Jeff Bridges), no one's especially excited to see her.

But her "punk rock" attitude (as seen in her parade of Black Flag, Bad Brains, and Motorhead rock T-shirts--thank you Hot Topic), though frustrating to her coach, eventually wins over and influences her teammates. Yearning to express themselves past the rigid, outdated guidelines created by "jealous" gymnastic judges, the gymnasts will turn the third act of the film into a declaration of personal victory.

Though the film's twist is an entertaining jolt to the standard sports story, its vision of integrity over points is executed with a surprising lack of finesse. And though the performances are all likable (Peregrym will be a much bigger star after this picture) and Jeff Bridges is his usual endearing self, the movie often feels forced. Unlike the clever punch of Bendinger's cheerleading comedy, Bring It On(which she wrote), Stick It tries too hard. The film isn't really "sticking it"; it's wearing it—like a tiny T-shirt that says "Girls Kick Ass." And what would Black Flag think about that?

Bjork's Blowhole--'Drawing Restraint 9'

If you've ever wanted to watch pop chanteuse Björk as she dresses and primps before revealing yet another one of her elaborate outfits, here's your chance. And if you've ever wondered what she'd look like with a nifty human blowhole, this is the movie you've been waiting for.

As an actress/co-conspirator in Matthew Barney's latest contemporary art installation/inflated-budget avant-garde film, Drawing Restraint 9, Björk (who provides music for the film as well) is a weirdly calming presence. Love her or hate her, there's something impishly mysterious about her face and demeanor. As demonstrated in Lars von Trier's Dancer in the Dark, and some of her more inspired music videos, the Icelandic pixie was made to be photographed.

Which fits perfectly with the enigmatic segments in Barney's film. He's an artist notable for his much-hyped, much-praised (and much-despised) art-theater installation, The Cremaster Cycle which like Drawing Restraint provokes questions. Is this art, as in so-called profound high art? Or is this an elaborately filmed fashion spread with an ever-hip Japanese edge? And, if it is the latter, why can't a fashion spread be considered art?

Putting such questions aside (I don't have the space to discuss the current state of contemporary art), what of the more filmic aspects? Does it contain impressive, evocative cinematography? Is it interesting to watch? Is it saying anything? Do we care?

For the most part, no.

Drawing Restraint 9 is a nearly wordless film that contains no plot, is occasionally poorly edited, and runs two and a half hours. Barney (whose presence I found irritating) and Björk board a Japanese whaling ship, where workers cut into what appears to be a large slab of Tofu. The "Occidental Guests," Björk and Barney, sit in rooms engaging in ritualistic behavior that's both fetishistic and confining. Fussed over by their Eastern hosts, the two dress in elaborate Japanese costume, complete with fur cloaks and shells tied to their backs. They walk, rather uncomfortably, one presumes, down narrow ship hallways to enter a room where they drink tea. They rarely talk, and they dutifully wear or take whatever their hosts provide In the meantime, the seamen craft a grand yet simple sculpture from Vaseline.

Does this have something to do with whaling? Not really. This is about human relations and art. Barney writes in the press kit that the heart of the piece is "the relationship between self-imposed resistance and creativity." Okay, fine. But do we care? Not this viewer. The only time I felt anything was during the film's beautifully gory finale, in which Barney moves into the territory of Japanese and Korean horror. But even as he showcases the film's most exciting, engrossing moments, I can't help but wonder what filmmakers Takashi Miike or Ki-duk Kim would have done with this material.

Or rather, what they've already done with this material. Only as a movie—and most definitely as art.