Sunset Gun

More Please--Oliver Twist

Does it seem possible that a film made in 1948 and by David Lean could exceed the darkness and controversy of a Roman Polanski picture? After watching the newest screen version of Oliver Twist, the answer is yes.

That isn’t to say Lean’s movies are featherweight (more like bloated, in some cases) but his Twist, moreso than any of the director's famous epics, remains Lean’s true masterwork. It’s also the greatest adaptation of Charles Dickens. Lyrical, gorgeously expressionistic to the point of F.W. Murnau stylistics and highly contentious for Alec Guinness’ brilliant, but exaggerated, Lon Chaney-like Semitic depiction of Fagin (it was banned in the US for three years—and considerably cut upon release) Lean’s picture works like a child’s nightmare. This is how that little foundling Oliver Twist might picture the world. And this is more than likely how Roman Polanski, child and man, colored his milieu.

One of cinema’s greatest living directors and no stranger to the seamier aspects of real life, Polanski is the one filmmaker who could take Dickens’ story and add something extra wicked, extra hostile, extra morbid, and of course, extra morbidly humorous. Though Oliver Twist is essentially a tale for children and adults, Dickens emotional, Victorian appeal belied a distinctly unsentimental depiction of poverty and the vicious underbelly of 1830’s London. Reading between the lines, one can take much, much more from Dickens. So, for a man who’s own childhood was that of a stray, traumatized by the Holocaust only to become the dark auteur of, among other classics, Repulsion, Rosemary’s Baby, Chinatown, The Tenant and The Pianist, the “more” was exactly what we hoped for. Instead we get a very nice film indeed.

And that’s just fine but not what we expected. Though handsomely mounted, truer to its source material and in a few poignant moments, quite wonderful, Oliver Twist lacks a certain personality that brings on the necessary undercurrents for a truly stirring picture. It’s also, sometimes, surprisingly impassive.

Beginning with Oliver’s (played by Barney Clark) stay in a wretched boys home where he dares asks for “more” and moving swiftly to his unpleasant time working for an undertaker, Oliver journeys to the mean streets of London where his life will change significantly. There he meets the Artful Dodger (Harry Eden), the charismatic king of the young lads who pickpocket for the devious, unsightly Fagin (Ben Kingsley). He’ll also find something of a family in this motley crew of boy criminals and have a bit of fun for the first time in his life. Even Fagin, a rag-wearing creep who surely smells a fright (you really do get this sense based on Kingsley’s look and performance) and a man who exploits his boys while hoarding jewels for retirement, is a source of relief for poor Oliver. Anything is better than a workhouse and Fagin is frequently, touchingly kind to him.

Which elevates the picture in sudden bursts. Fagin’s compassion offers the film’s most moving moments—both director and actor create a Fagin who is thoroughly grotesque but exceptionally sympathetic. When Oliver moans “please take pity on this poor wretched man!” it’s both startlingly emotional and powerfully critical— in other words, quintessential Dickens. And when Fagin’s “colleague,” the awful Bill Sykes (Jamie Forman who’s good but no Oliver Reed from Oliver!) turns on his prostitute wife Nancy (Leanne Rowe) we really do suffer the layers of self hatred and hardness in his dreadfully sad actions.

But why couldn’t Polanski tinted his entire movie with this two fisted approach--all that awfulness and poignancy? We see it laid out right in front of us and even feel it via Kingsley, Forman and young Eden (sadly, more than Clark— Oliver himself, but The Artful Dodger has always been a sexier character). There’s even a sequence that’s visually, stunning Polanski--when Oliver is making his way to London, the road is filmed a crooked evil path filled with ominous trees and a mixture of discordant uncertainty and stark fear. But that’s the only exceptionally creative moment in a film that is again, perfectly acceptable.

But perfectly acceptable is not what I expect from Roman Polanski. This may seem overly stern and perhaps unfair, but Polanski’s Oliver Twist should be perfectly brilliant.

"Oliver Twist" opens Friday, September 23.

Bless the Beastly Children--The Butcher Boy

Revisiting one of Neil Jordan's greatest films--"The Butcher Boy."

Nothing warms the heart like a murderous child--in fiction. In reality, they chill our bones. Through the collective consciousness of the media and public, evil kids are labeled as either innocents soiled by heinous misdeeds or sneering devil worshipers pulling the legs off insects. Debates rage over execution vs. rehabilitation, and a myriad of influences (abuse, movies, video games) are blamed for their crimes. We must find a reason. If we can't find a reason, then we can't find a cure, and that puts us in an uncomfortable predicament: Either we face our own past desires of blowing away our eighth-grade teachers or guilelessly wonder, "How could a baby do such a thing?"

Maybe the answer is just that the world is filled with too many humans. Or in the case of Neil Jordan's daring 1998The Butcher Boy (released a year before the Columbine massacre and a little over a week before Kip Kinkel's shootings at Thurston High) too many "bogmen with bony arses."

These "bogmen" addle Francie Brady (Eamonn Owens) a smart, charming 12-year-old living in the Northern Irish town of Carn during the early '60s. Francie's father (Stephen Rea) is a drunkard trumpet player, and his mother (Aisling O'Sullivan) has just attempted to hang herself in the kitchen. Francie's best friend is Joe (Alan Boyle), and his rival is Phillip Nugent (Andrew Fullerton), a pretty rich boy who has all the comics Francie and Joe want. His arch enemy is Phillip's mother, Mrs. Nugent (Fiona Shaw), a bespectacled prude who calls Francie's family "pigs." Mrs. Nugent must be tortured and stopped, and Francie is up to the task.

Really up to the task. His grisly determination leads him to a variety of correctional institutions, where he spirals into a world that is understood only by his apparition of the Virgin Mary (Sinead O'Connor), a beauty who becomes his only friend. Francie has many facets. There's the wonderfully creative Francie who dreams of mushroom clouds and pigs; the nostalgic boy who loves his ma and his best friend Joe; the survivor who stabs a molesting priest and kicks the asses of two adult thugs; the victim whose world is being destroyed by the Mrs. Nugents of the world. He simultaneously breaks and warms our hearts.

Thanks to Neil Jordan. The director's superb adaptation of Patrick McCabe's novel is a potent blend of horror, comedy, pathos and mystery. A film unafraid of extensive words, Jordan's picture is like a volume of Gerard Manley Hopkins poems illustrated by violent comics. Working from the perspective of a child who eventually kills someone with an abattoir bolt gun, cuts up the body and smears blood all over the walls, Jordan puts the viewer smack in the middle of madness and never lets go. The viewer is always in Francie's mind--a mind worth being in. And Francie--as played by Owens-- displays hyper charm and intelligent timing uncharacteristic of actors his, or any, age. In other films, Francie would take on the stock role of big, obnoxious bully, the playground roughie we hate. Here, we adore him--even after he defecates on Mrs. Nugent's floor. We also are in awe of him for his capacity to kill (and enjoy it) and to survive. In Owens' hands, Francie is not an example of the unfathomable violence adults ponder; considering the world that surrounds him, he makes sense. The magical realism his mind creates is so intense, it is no wonder he would kill. It is part of his deranged essence.

Through Jordan's solid script and rhythmic procession of images, The Butcher Boy is a beautifully lurid work. Like Francie himself, it is absurd, hilarious, disturbing and full of creative horror. For those who ask "How could a baby do such a thing?" Jordan's answer is, because he can. Never underestimate the imagination of a child.

Cry Bored--Cry Wolf

Why are the teenagers of Cry Wolf so bored? Is schoolwork at the posh Westlake Academy just too easy? Is the life of privilege, beauty, and hiked-up prep-school skirts simply not filling out their days? Is the cyber world of internet, email, and instant messages depriving them of the tactile thrills they crave? What is their effing problem?

Well, as we know, teenagers are frequently bored, no matter what social strata they come from. And, if we believe movies and literature, indulging in lies, deceit, and gossip is as timeless as Choderlos de Laclos' 1882's Les Liaisons Dangereuses (made into two splendid films—Valmont and Dangerous Liaisons). Though that story was, literally, about sexual mind games and reputation-bashing created by the poisonous gambol of adult aristocratic brats, the translation into teenhood was transferred easily and surprisingly well with Cruel Intentions—a film from which Cry Wolf could have taken tips. Instead, the filmmakers went the way of Urban Legendand, as such, the movie suffers gravely.

It's a pity because you can see the movie wants to explore the nature of gossip in an intriguing manner—one that goes beyond the typical teen slasher flick. But to balance social significance with psychological thriller with horror overtaxes first-time filmmakers Jeff Wadlow and Beau Bauman (who won a contest for Chrysler): The picture is neither clever nor scary nor particularly relevant. In certain instances, it's even downright stupid.

Our precocious little teenyboppers are a spoiled batch centered on one problematic transfer student, Owen Matthews (Julian Morris)—a Brit who's been thrown out of countless prep schools for pranks and drugs—and hottie scholarship student Dodger (Lindy Booth), whom Owen's got a mad crush on. That crush and Owen's revealed skills of trickery grants him invite to the "liars club." The club meeting is convened after campus curfew by school jock Tom (Jared Padalecki), and we see the kids come up with "clever" games that, for such smarty-pants kids, really aren't that interesting. Their most "brilliant" idea is the Wolf game, in which one player is a "shepherd" who secretly chooses a "wolf" that the rest of the "sheep" will have to discover as clues are dropped into their laps, or laptops. It's like Clue, only meaner and more interactive—especially when some real (or not?) events start taking place.

One real occurrence happens at film start and is the genesis for amping up the game. A local, or "townie," is brutally murdered, putting the campus and town at risk with a killer on the loose. The students decide to create the serial killer as the "wolf" and send a mass email to the school that a student is responsible for the slaying. As expected, this does prick up the real killer's ears. You can probably guess what results. You think he'll strike again? No! And, no?

To be fair, the film's tension comes from the is-he-or-isn't-he factor, which offers potential layers of intrigue and mistrust on top of the mostly non-gory horror. But the key word here is "potential." With the kids playing games on each other, and the gossip spiraling into the real world of murderous mayhem, Cry Wolf almost gains points for attempting to dissect the dangers of that old story of crying wolf. But unlike half the real-life kids who go to upscale boarding schools or, say, the horror work of early Tobe Hooper or Wes Craven, or that little gem April Fool's Day, the film is never smart enough to dumb up its thesis. Like its own characters, it only thinks itself clever. And that's pretty boring.

It's Not Easy Being Green--Green Street Hooligans

Here’s the thing about Lexi Alexander’s Green Street Hooligans--it ain’t no Fight Club.

And yes, I know--comparing one of cinema’s supreme treatises on the wimpified masses lure towards violence with this Brit hooligan jape may seem a tad unfair but...Hooligan’s attempts at dissecting the potency, the, even life affirming attraction of busting heads is just too obvious to ignore.

And then we have Alan Clarke’s far superior The Firm to consider, a movie in which the young, amped-up Gary Oldman guides us through the motivation and visceral thrill of soccer violence.  Meek, shallow and all show, Hooligan’s lacks Clarke’s absorbing explanation for the firms, any true sense of neighborhood and worse, just why the hell soccer is so darn important in the first place. We see a bunch of thugs fighting—a lot—and acting pretty superior about it. As if their brutality is higher evolved than American hostility. Um, no.
Which brings me back to Fight Club—at least David Fincher's film had the balls to revel in violence while revealing how ludicrous and out of control it can become. And it was a brilliant satire to boot. Hooligans, instead, plays like a Lifetime made for TV movie aimed towards stay-at-home soccer fanatics.

An interestingly cast and well played Elijah Wood (Frodo no more!) is Matt, a Harvard journalism student who’s been expelled for taking the fall over his roommate's drug bust. With his non narc-ing integrity in check (we guess), he journeys to London to crash with his sister (Claire Forlani) who’s married to the macho/sensitive Steve (Marc Warren). Quickly he’s befriended/platonically seduced by Steve’s charismatic younger brother Pete (an impressive, appealing Charlie Hunnam) who introduces the nerdy, “journo” major to his friends. Matt is swept up in their ribald camaraderie and swiftly (too swiftly) recruits himself as a full on yank street brawler. His sister’s concerned but Matt likes it—he’s caught up in it—in fact he finally feels something in life.

I wish I felt something. Though the film begins with the promise of dissecting the origins and politics of the firms, the neighborhood turf wars and the general attraction towards football hooligan culture, it quickly abandons those aims to indulge exaggerated sub plots including a ridiculous last act that plays like some terrible Brett Easton Ellis rip-off (which is bad enough right there).

As such, we never care about these people. Even the violence (which is being commended by some critics—partially because Alexander is a kickboxing champion I think) is poorly conceived. The film’s final brawl (set to sappy adult contemporary music) is so melodramatic you’d swear the fight choreography was directed by Sting. Oh right, I forgot, a woman helmed this. Where’s Kathryn Bigelow when you need her? Or better yet, Tura Satana. She does have a black belt in karate.

Mein Camp--Apt Pupil

*A look back at one of 1998's most strangely sexual, borderline offensive fetish films--"Apt Pupil."

Sylvia Plath's poem "Daddy" caused an outrage when it was published in 1961. Not only did the confessional poet compare her own struggles to the Holocaust, but she spoke of a Nazi fetishism common to certain women. As she opined, "Every woman adores a fascist, the boot in the face, the brute, brute heart of a brute like you."

Plath's poetry now reads, to some, like Nancy Drew gone berserk, but "Daddy" was and still is sexually potent stuff. Filled with the repulsion and attraction inspired by the "neat moustache" and the "Aryan eye, bright blue," Plath was admitting something rarely expressed by women: Both Daddy and Nazis were darkly sexy.

But what about for men? As Oscar Wilde—the "daddy" of homoerotic aestheticism--would probably agree, the murky Dionysian dwelling beneath the jack-booted Apollonian is a fantasy image that many men, gay or straight, could find attractive. You’ve seen it explored/salivated over and made chic all over the place—from Dirk Bogarde and Charlotte Rampling’s sexual recreation in The Night Porter to the Nazi-fixated Mel Brooks’ Nurse Diesel giving Harvey Korman the treatment in High Anxiety to the comics of Tom O’ Finland to even, the fantastically handsome, shirtless Ralph Fiennes scratching his puffy stomach in Schindler’s List. And you see it in what was, presumably, a “no brainer” teen movie—Bryan Singer's Apt Pupil, a movie about Nazi adoration that carries a cunningly homoerotic subtext.

Based on a novella by Stephen King, the picture stars fresh faced Brad Renfro as Todd Bowden, a bright 16-year-old so fascinated by World War II-era Germany that he’s acquired a sort of sickness, a predilection for evil. Having memorized facts, faces and images of the Holocaust, Todd recognizes an old man on a bus as Kurt Dussander (Ian McKellen), the "Butcher of Treblinka." Following the man home, Todd works his way into the exceedingly private man's house and blackmails him into a deal: In exchange for not reporting the war criminal to the proper authorities (Todd’s confirmed the old man's identity by his fingerprints) Dussander must tell Todd all of his stories. "I want to hear everything," he implores, "everything they don't tell us in school." Soon the deal turns into an ominous power game, and Todd, either haunted or hepped up by his Holocaust daydreams, begins to exhibit sociopathic behavior.

When the power shifts and Todd realizes that consorting with Nazis is perhaps not such a good idea after all, the youth becomes more involved in Dussander's dark world. And herein lies his dilemma: Will Todd go on with his life a normal college-bound teenager, or will he, as a closeted Fascist, embody a new and dangerous future?

Though the questions are intriguing, the film seems unsure of what it's trying to accomplish. Or maybe it's just being coy. Is it a suspenseful and “intelligent” Singer film, in the manner of The Usual Suspects? Is it another example of Stephen King's non-horror side, like The Shawshank Redemption and Stand by Me? Or is it merely an over-the-top teenybopper movie that just happens to star the great British thespian Ian McKellen?

It is none and all of these things, and as such remains almost mediocre. Almost. Viewed for its homoerotic subtext, (and with Singer, that’s not so surprising) Apt Pupil is a terribly interesting picture. Like Plath's work, Pupil uses fascism to magnify a subverted sexual force—an attraction to the sexually dangerous, the “brute, brute heart.”

Throughout the film Singer spices the movie up with curious situations, shots and suggestive lines. In a scene reminiscent of Vertigo, Todd has Dussander dress in the costume he compulsively cherishes— the Nazi uniform— and then orders him to march in place. Like Vertigo’s manically fetishistic Jimmy Stewart making over Kim Novak into his perfected cool blonde, Todd yells, "Faster! Faster!" and the old Aryan marches with frightening hysteria to the point of sexual release. In another scene, Todd, at the behest of his friend, takes a girl out, only to be sullen and callous. When things turn sexual, the uninterested Todd withdraws, leaving the girl to taunt, "Do you even like girls?" No, it seems he doesn't. He likes Dussander—or the fantasy of Dussander.

With an eye for the subversive, Singer lingers on certain moments long enough for us to wonder (and then really understand) just what the hell is going on. One involves Todd's guidance counselor (David Schwimmer) who, after lecturing the boy for his plummeting grades (too much extracurricular activity, perhaps?), gives Todd his home phone number. He puts his hand on the boy's arm, looks into his eyes and emphatically tells him he can call for anything. Anything. Uh-huh.

But perhaps one of the greatest sexual moments occurs during a heated (hot?) exchange between Dussander and Todd. A worked up Dussander utters the blatant double entendre, "You're fucked. Don't you see, my boy? We are fucking each other!"

Are they? Thanks to the brilliant McKellen and the impeccably blank-faced, Tom Ripley-like Renfro, we never really know. Singer managed to make an otherwise obvious and middling film a complicated depiction of frustrated homosexuality mingling dangerously with buried jack booted carnality. Did the studio know about this? Or were they secretly, perhaps, even subconsciously in league with Sylvia Plath. Every studio head privately “adores a facist.”