Elle

It doesn't get much darker than Elle.

A great companion piece for The Lobster if you're craving an evening of total anarchy.

This January.

In the film, a highly functioning potentially psychotic successful businessperson conducts her affairs with extreme emotional detachment, unless her ex-husband's involved, she's trying to help her emotionally abused son (a bad relationship with another potential psycho), or hoping her mother won't marry a coddling gigolo.

Even as she's raped at home and then thoroughly humiliated at work, at her own company, which produces sexually explicit video games, she still generally proceeds as if nothing's wrong and manages to accomplish an extraordinarily diverse number of tasks, pure robotic efficiency, as if she's been there and done that for every possible scenario, stoic impeccability existentially exonerated.

Unfortunately, in her youth, she accompanied her father as he proceeded to murder most of their neighbours, the story becoming a nationwide sensation, her life quite strange at all times forever after.

That's not all, it's even more dysfunctional, the eclectic cast of diverse oddballs even congregated for Christmas dinner, a scene that could have transported Elle into unapproachable contemptuous infinities, had it been even more sinister, had it sought after true infamy.

Therein lies a play for someone else to write.

Adam Reed? Mitchell Hurwitz?

Sadomasochistically submerged in ineffable grotesque hypotheticals, Elle's bourgeois community still must interrelate, it can't help it if that was how it was written.

Like pure misogyny masquerading as a caring caricature of feminine strength, Elle is as undefinable as it is cold and direct, its unmuzzled licentious agency, its pristine putrefaction, calculated to deafeningly depreciate, in gross inherent disillusion.

Not to say that it isn't well done.

It's quite well done in fact.

A sensation.

Pathologically speaking.

The Lobster

The Lobster is one of those hilarious dark comedies that makes you feel guilty for laughing throughout and horrible for laughing afterwards.

Messed-up filmscape.

You aren't introduced to its fascist sociopolitical dynamics at first, so it seems like choice is still an option for the participants.

As it unreels, it becomes clear that extremists have held control for some time, and their authoritative micromanaging of human relationships have been fastidiously naturalized.

You hear this in the dialogue, the script, everything boiled down to awkward blunt expressions of confusion and loneliness, adding desperate depth to carnal credulity, the actors involved ironically bringing to life what might seem like decomposing prose with expertly timed inverse uniformity, their tones and gestures staggeringly reanimating, stitched together by the hauntingly observant narration.

Narration doesn't add much to some films, but it's a key component of The Lobster.

I don't want to give too much away, but from what I can tell, in The Lobster's realm you must have a partner and that partner must have the same idiosyncrasy as you (blindness, nosebleeds, ruthlessness, a nice smile).

If you can't find one within a specified time you're transformed into an animal of your choice.

If you escape to the woods to live with the loners you're hunted down like an animal.

It's like Yorgos Lanthimos imagined a world where you could not exist on your own, where you couldn't live without being part of a social order, and then fastened it with brutal punishments for refusing to obey, everyone under constant surveillance, totalitarian forms even encumbering those embodying subversive content (the loners) as they feel compelled to live their bohemian lives with a similar sense of strict gruelling cohesivity.

Mirrors and shadows.

Some of them actually find love which causes excruciating pain, the film consistently presenting interactions doomed to fail that seem so unfamiliar and bleak that the distance produces laughter until something excessively violent happens which isn't funny at all, like a discordant heavy metal xylophone solo broken up by machine gun fire.

The Lobster messes with your head to perhaps suggest that some folks just want to live alone, chill bachelors and bachelorettes, leave them be, let them do their own thing.

Coercively managing the social is the worst.

The expression of every thought.

Love truly blind.

Hot Fuzz

Wow. Ever been worried that the warm and friendly atmosphere blossoming in your small town is being sinisterly manufactured in order to preserve an antiquated way of life? Ever considered that beneath the pristine picturesque pastimes coordinating your daily pastoral activities lies a determined sect dedicated to ensuring that those activities will remain unchanged, forever?

Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg sure have and the result is a chilling satirization of life in the country, complete with down home cute and cuddly clementines and the infrequent honk of a rebellious swan.

Or Hot Fuzz for short.

Police officer Nicholas Angel (Simon Pegg) excels at his job. But he performs beyond exceptionally thereby alienating most of the force.

This results in his transfer from London to Sandford.

His dedicated uncompromising bullet proof rectitude also frustrates many in Sandford, but not before he acknowledges that he may have a problem and also befriends partner Danny Butterman (Nick Frost).

The two form an unlikely duo determined to prove that a series of recent deaths are in fact the product of murder, Simon Skinner (Timothy Dalton) being their principal suspect.

Should Angel proceed with the traditional traction that has failed to serve him well professionally, or should he relax his pursuit of justice in order to make a more homely fit in his new town?

The answer enriches the ultimate battle of good versus evil, sublimely crafted and ridiculously executed, truly one for the ages.

If you like watching well-written films wherein characters are given seriously comedic room to maneuver, films which seem like they're unconcerned with their narrative's meticulously researched playfully cohesive structure, films which set up over the top stereotypes in opposition and then provide them with plenty of ammo, films where representatives of law and order break down and descend into total chaos, while still upholding the law, you'll likely enjoy Hot Fuzz's bizarre relationship with tradition and redemption, give or take a theoretical posture regarding communal individuality.

Obsessed unyielding conviction. Authority and a pledge of trust. Guns.

Hot Fuzz.

Novocaine

While growing up in the 80s I was a huge Steve Martin fan, so I decided to give Novocaine a shot recently even though its reviews are predominantly negative. And it's obvious that those reviews are negative because Novocaine is simply to smart for its own good. It's well written insofar as its melodramatic presentations and pronouncements are consistently subverted by ridiculous subject matter that simultaneously lambastes and reconstructs several film noir 'motifs' in order to ironically elevate the whole kitschy kit and kaboodle. It's like director David Atkins is giving Martin the chance to make fun of the ways in which Steve Martin films were typecast during the 90s by allowing him to return to a more atypical role, like those from Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid or The Man with Two Brains. In fact, Atkins plays with mass conventions and characterizations within in order to reinvent and reinvigorate filmic constructions, notably with his police officers and femme fatales, thereby providing an unpredictable treat for the conditioned status quo, by destabilizing the manufactured organic link between characters and occupations. Which opens up the comedic spectrum and explains the vituperation.

Kevin Bacon's first scene is outstanding.

Greenberg

Presenting one of the most cohesive and uniform portraits of a self-centered asinine son of a bitch, Noah Baumbach's Greenberg is a blunt, comedic character study of a troubled messed up individual. Completely unaware and unconcerned with the social ramifications of causes and effects, Roger Greenberg (Ben Stiller) problematically engages with the outside world according to his own set of unpredictable and obsessive rules. Enter Florence Marr (Greta Gerwig), a helpful confused relaxed yet energetic housekeeper with a big heart and a cheerful disposition. She meets Greenberg when his brother (Chris Messina) asks him to look after his place in Los Angeles for a couple of weeks while he travels throughout Vietnam. The two quickly commence an offbeat association and the film generally focuses on their mischievous miscues. You'll likely spend a lot of time wondering how she could possibly put up with Greenberg, as he consistently screws up every situation within which they happen to find themselves. In fact, Greenberg's strength lies in the lack of sympathy it develops for Greenberg. Baumbach crafts scene after scene where Greenberg lets his fabricated hang ups ruin the social interaction. But Florence sees something within which no one else can and keeps coming back time and time again, often reluctantly, always ready to give him a seventh or eighth chance. And through her devotion one learns to love (or at least tolerate) pesky Greenberg as he rashly applies his determination to whatever spur of the moment idea he suddenly considers compelling.

A Serious Man

The Coen Brothers's A Serious Man examines the impact of a series of disruptive events upon the life of Larry Gopnik (Michael Stuhlbarg). Things are going well for Larry near the film's beginning insofar as his status-quo routine is firmly established and he is being considered for tenure at the educational institution where he works. Things could certainly be better: he has trouble establishing a dialogue with his children, his gun loving neighbour (Peter Breitmayer) doesn't recognize where his lawn ends and Larry's begins, and his down-on-his-luck brother (Uncle Arthur played by Richard Kind) lives with his family and can't seem to get his life together. But these minor problems are dealt with stoically albeit non-confrontationally by the introverted Larry who still remains confident in his work and cohesive in his appearances. Then, suddenly, his wife (Sarah Lennick) announces she's leaving him, a hopeless student (David Kang) places him in a ludicrously awkward position, his brother is arrested, the tenure committee begins to receive disparaging letters, he's forced to endure humiliating conversations with his wife and her new love interest (Fred Melamed), he gets in a car accident, discovers he owes Columbia Records a large sum of money, and so on and so on, while seeking help from confusing rabbis (Simon Helberg, George Wyner), making sure his son (Aaron Wolff) is ready for his Bat Mitzvah, living out of a matchbox hotel (with his brother), . . . ; in short, things amusingly spiral out of control as Larry tries to keep from discombobulating. It's definitely a Coen Brothers film inasmuch as they effectively introduce over a dozen dynamic characters and awkward situations who/which are tightly tied together in a coherent chaotic whole, a whole which situates old world legends in a post-modern predicament while simultaneously disseminating that very same predicament as an old world legend. Some of the characters could have used some more screen time (Uncle Arthur for instance), the ending could have had a little more closure (the Coen Brothers taking a roguish shot at their audience), the Dybbuk could have been reintroduced a bit more directly (although I suppose it's amorphous presence is meant to stimulate debate [a debate about which they are likely chuckling]), and Larry could have occasionally expressed himself more elaborately (although I suppose that's the point of the ending). But, nevertheless, A Serious Man playfully and mischievously creates a multi-dimensional functionally dysfunctional world, wherein audience and characters alike are treated to a cornucopia of possibilities and a plethora of problematic realities.

World's Greatest Dad

Few films slowly and subtly build their dark comedic landscapes as effectively as Bobcat Goldthwait's World's Greatest Dad, and the finished product is an hilarious mixture of aerobic angst and ideological agony. The facts: single father Lance Clayton (Robin Williams) works as a high school poetry teacher whose elective class is none to popular. He's been trying to sell a book for most of his adult life with no success and his anti-social son Kyle (Daryl Sabara) disdainfully dismisses his heartfelt attempts to establish a loving relationship. Well, one day Kyle accidentally chokes himself to death and after discovering the body, Lance can't let the police find him in such a disheveled state. So he writes a suicide note and moves him to the closet, making it look like Kyle traditionally took his own life. But unfortunately for Lance, the suicide note is discovered online and quickly disseminated to the majority of his high school's student body. Much to his surprise, Kyle becomes something of a legend as the students cast him as a tragic misunderstood hero, a misguided object of idolatry and veneration. The only thing Lance can do is go along, and soon his poetry class is full of admirers and he's invited to Dr. Dana's (Deborah Horne) television show to plug his conjured version of Kyle's diary. But all good things must come to an end, and just as the high school library is being renamed in Kyle's honour, with a special appearance by loveable singer-songwriter Bruce Hornsby, the truth, and Lance's shot at the big time (including his first book deal), comes crashing down. Wherein lies the ideological agony of the film insofar as realistically speaking Lance's co-workers etc. are upset because he lied to them, but, ideologically speaking, they're even more upset that he told the truth, thereby ruining the cult of Kyle by delegitimizing their exhaulted hero. Things return to normal for good 'ole Lance and he looks like his life has improved remarkably in the aftermath, Goldthwait's succinct salute to Lance's courageous individualism. By showing us what Kyle was like before his deification and then forcing us to awkwardly watch the absurd heights said deification reaches (notably the recurring shots of Kyle's uncharismatic comic "portrait"), Goldthwait maniacally and ingeniously establishes an elegant elegy for what it feels like to squirm, not as raunchy or frank as a well-crafted John Waters film, but just as resolute in producing unsettling tremors of intellectual discomfort.

Burn After Reading

The Coen Brothers' Burn After Reading presents another tangled mess of lovesick lechers, vitriolic vixens, and hapless half-wits, with problems, which become worse, as time passes.

It's really well done.

The plot follows Osbourne Cox (John Malkovich) after his quasi-dismissal from the CIA (his boss being played by Sledgehammer lead David Rasche). His wife Katie (Tilda Swinton) is having an affair with fun-loving-sex-crazed Treasury Agent Harry Pfarrer (George Clooney), who has never fired his gun. A copy of Cox's memoirs accidentally ends up in the hands of Linda Litzke (Frances McDormand), who, with the help of fellow Hardbodies Gym employee Chad Feldheimer (Brad Pitt), decides to blackmail Cox based upon the information inside. In between, a lot of awkward, lonely, gentle, and narcissistic people end up in one embarrassing situation after another, often confused, occasionally, dead. Me found it to be preferable to No Country for Old Men and the Coen brothers' best since O Brother, Where Art Thou? However, as a pair, Burn After Reading and No Country for Old Men show the best of both sides of their oeuvre, one illustrating the conniving manners in which they amusingly nuance their tragedies, the other demonstrating the bitter, helpless mediocrity that dramatically distills their comedy.

I'm not sure if this was the intent in casting Brad Pitt and George Clooney, but note how within their opening scenes they each struggle to play a role that differs from those they've generically rendered in films such as the Ocean's 11 trilogy. However, as their screen-time increases, Clooney's character falls back into his traditional trajectory, but Pitt's becomes more and more endearing, tantalizingly reminiscent of his True Romance cameo. Note how Burn's plot structurally provides an outlandish portrait of Clooney's ego with unconscious retributive satisfaction (in regards to Pitt's multi-dimensional diversity), thereby covertly explaining why he received top billing, when it should have obviously gone to Malkovich.

A lot of people want to make a quick buck, but can't, and still try too anyways, all the time. A lot of people with authoritative positions don't really know what's going on, and, probably never will, yet, they have important decisions to make, many of which end up being wrong, yet are remembered with reverence. And if some people spent more time thinking about environmentally friendly ways of boosting the economy than they do about sex, we'd probably have a hell-of-a-lot less pollution, and really cheap clean-running fuel efficient cars (in which to have sex).

Think about it.

Hancock

It's nice to see Will Smith starring in a straight-up mainstream smash and bash 'em trash flick which should have been screened at Montréal's Fantasia Fest. Hancock plays on the old "let's bring in an alcoholic anti-hero who everyone loves to hate and then try and reform him" plot device that worked so well in films such as Clint Eastwood's The Outlaw Josey Whales or Tony Scott's The Last Boy Scout. Thus, Will Smith plays Hancock, a god suffering from amnesia who drinks straight whiskey all day and cares not for the reckless means he employs to thwart villains as they engage in their acts of villainy. Enter Jason Bateman playing a suburban dad who works in public relations, his main focus being to convince corporations to begin acting kindly by giving things away for free. His character is identical to Arrested Development's Michael Bluth with surly Hancock substituted for his spoilt, decadent family.

Bateman (Ray Embrey) attempts to help Hancock reform by convincing him to turn himself in and do time for his crimes. While in jail, Hancock attends a self-help group wherein inmates discuss their problems in order to convalesce, writers Vincent Ngo and Vince Gilligan borrowing heavily from similar scenes (which were actually successful) in Mike Myer's Austin Powers and David Dobkin's Fred Claus. Eventually, Smith discovers his divine female counterpart with whom he has been eternally engaged. However, whenever they meet their powers begin to disappear, this natural law functioning as a symbolic representation of successful professionals who are firmly in love and attempting to live together. They reunite just as a number of Hancock's defeated foes escape from prison, giving mere mortal villains a chance to take down a god.

Will Jason Bateman save the day in the end? Will Hancock give up saving the world in order to selfishly pursue his own desire, choosing personal love over communal sacrifice?

I really don't know, but if you're looking to shut off your brain and watch Michael Bluth try and reform a subdued yet belligerent Will Smith for 90 minutes, you may find Hancock mildly entertaining, the tortured cradle of a god who can have everything he wants besides that which he truly desires.

The Fox Family (Fantasia Fest 2007)

When I heard about a new Korean film where a pack of foxes is transformed into a human family by a magic spell in order so that they can devour human livers during a lunar eclipse, livers which will provide them with the nourishment they require to maintain their human form, a chance they are only offered once in a thousand years, I figured I was in for a treat. And I figured correctly. Director Lee Hyung-Gon's The Fox Family delivers an hilarious, gruesome, off kilter horror/comedy/musical/romance that leaves most North American flicks cowering in their burrows. Sort of reminded me of Dead Alive. The Kumiho family has 30 days to figure out how to live amongst humans so that they can be guaranteed access to fresh livers on the night of the lunar eclipse. And how do they intend to obtain their meal? Why, opening up a circus of course! Their nimbly foxiness predisposes them to the acrobatic arts and soon they find themselves performing for kiddies in an urban centre, with one skit having the older sister's arms chainsawed off, squirting stump blood all over the crowd. Somewhat off-kilter.

I was a bit worried when I read that The Fox Family was a musical because I rarely take to such films but some of the numbers aren't bad, notably the lighthearted love songs. The song which accompanies the troupe's first experiences in the working world was a bit much, but it was overshadowed by the number which explores their attempts to get livers to join their entourage. The choreography is solid and one wonders how money was left over in the budget to create sprightly little special effects regarding humanoid foxlike behaviour.

Ki-Dong adds quite a lot to The Fox Family as he falls in love with the elder sister even though he knows she plans to feast upon his liver. It certainly doesn't stop him from pursuing some fertile fervid felicitous fox action. He remains with the family with the hopes of filming them in fox form, thereby providing the world with its first encounter with human-fox video, whereby he can earn enough scratch to pay off some goons. Like skirting the realms of heroine addiction in order to create some artistic legend before succumbing to devastation. And his comedic presence gives the film that extra bit of ridiculous depth which saves it two thirds of the way through as it starts to drag.

If you can get your hands on a copy, don't hold out on this hidden Korean gem. Come for the acrobatics and cringe whenever the motif of lips eating something disgusting reappears. It’s worth it for the ways in which it nurtures comedic insight, if not simply for the perfectly placed jilting opening line: "where can we find a lot of humans." I really don't know how to answer that question.