Two nights ago and for the sixth or seventh time, I re-watched ‘s Moonlighting (’82). Not on Bluray but on the Criterion Channel. Excellent HD. I regard this 41 year-old film as a total comfort watch. It gives me just as much pleasure as, say, the first 45 minutes of The Guns of Navarone, which I never watch beyond the 45-minute mark, or past the point of the team scaling the 200-foot cliff in the driving rain + Anthony Quayle breaking his leg + Anthony Quinn saying “one bullet now — better for him, better for us.”
Four years ago (4.16.19): Moonlighting (’82) is a finely chiselled, dead brilliant drama about four Polish guys (led by Jeremy Irons‘ “Nowak”) renovating their boss’s London flat during the time of the Solidarity crackdown in Poland.
Very matter of fact, very specific and situational but at the same time a political allegory that sticks the landing. As perfectly made as this kind of thing can be.
I love that moment when Jeremy Irons is lying on his bed and staring at a photo of his girlfriend / wife (Jenny Seagrove) and suddenly she seems to come alive within the frame, very slightly and somewhat erotically.
A reasonably decent HE parody piece, posted earlier today by Seasonal Aflac Disorder:
“I’m lying in the L.A. County morgue, literally and figuratively chilling, and I hate to admit I’ve left a much nicer corpse than some of my fellows filed in the other cabinets. What the hell with all the gas and sounds? Have some dignity, Jesus. They took out the vitals and weighed them yesterday on the scale with good numbers all around, much better than anyone else in here.
“The amount of obesity, male pattern baldness and poor dentistry — all avoidable with visits to Prague or Tijuana, respectively — that could have been avoided is irritating beyond belief. One young woman left a nice corpse, and honestly, I can tell she appreciated the work I put into myself. The morlock who catalogued my clothing could hardly appreciate my fine Italian loafers and carelessly threw them in the cardboard box, and in so doing wrinkled my linen slacks.
“So far the afterlife is fairly mezzo mezzo, if you know what I mean. I expected some big flash of white light or something, not a flowing-robed Jesus or bullshit like that, but c’mon! Death, honestly, feels a lot like Parasite when they let the maid back in…”
Everyone ages but people expect celebrities to do a better job of holding back the ravages of time. Or, failing that, to at least resemble their younger selves. That’s all they have to do — just bear a passing resemblance.
There was no mistaking who that tall, gray-haired fellow was, posing next to Elton John back in ‘75. Nor was there any recent difficulty in identifying that 61 year-old guy who’s been bravely coping with Parkinson’s for the last 25-plus years.
“You’re greedy, unfeeling, inept, indifferent, self-inflating and unconscionably profitable. Besides that, I have nothing against you. I’m sure you play a helluva game of golf.”
…except in the matter of WGA strikes. A feeling in my bones tells me the just-begun work stoppage, which right now is only affecting the late-night talk shows, could last well into the summer. Or beyond that, God forbid. I read this morning that the dispute boils down to 2%ofstudioprofitmargins. But the real bugaboo is the generative AI factor.
There are hundreds of thousands of elderly Covid cowards STILL walking around with masks, and I mean OUTDOORS. Walking their dogs on a woodsy, tree-shaded path, and they’re totally MASKED UP. It goes without saying that I always give these gentle persons the HE stink-eye.
Legendary dp Vittorio Storaro (Apocalypse Now, The Conformist, The Last Emperor) is deploring a recent decision by Cannes topper Thierry Fremaux to not present Woody Allen‘s Coup de Chance at the 2023 Cannes Film Festival, which kicks off two weeks hence. Storaro shot Allen’s French-language film last year in Paris.
“I am scandalized and indignant that Cannes has chosen not to present [Woody’s] latest film, all because of the accusations made by his wife Mia Farrow and her daughter Dylan,” Storaro said. “Need I remind everyone that Woody has already been acquitted of these charges twice? This #MeToo obsession continues [to our general misfortune]. Yes, it is bringing real systemic issues to light, but it’s also doing a lot of unjust damage. It’s a witch hunt that goes beyond the bounds of common sense.”
Storaro emphasized that Allen “deserves the Croisette” and would be there imminently if not for Fremaux’s political squeamishness.
2023 is one-third over, and so before Cannes begins and especially before the summer months bring their usual empty-gas-tank feeling, it’s time for HE’s list of the year’s finest and fullest films so far — The Covenant, Air, Close, Beau Is Afraid, The Lost King, Magic Mike’s Last Dance, Palm Trees and Power Lines and The Son.
Yes, I’ve chosen only eight — four or five that really make the grade and three or four that deserve to be called respectably sturdy.
The overall tally could actually be nine if I include Paul Schrader‘s reasonably decent Master Gardener, which I saw last September during the ’22 New York Film Festival. (I’ll post my review sometime before the end of next week.)
1. I’m surprised to be saying that HE’s choice for the most engaging film of 2023 is Guy Ritchie’s The Covenant (MGM, 4.21), especially given my consistent, less-than-adoring opinion of Ritchie over the last 20-odd years, and especially given his descent into the slick hack realm after Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (’98). Here’s my Covenant review, posted only a couple of weeks ago.
2. My second favorite is Ben Affleck‘s Air (Amazon), which I reviewed on 3.22.23. Okay, I should’ve given it an 8 grade rather than an 8.5 or 9. I re-watched it a second time in a local theatre and was still satisfied. I’m planning to watch it again tonight with subtitles.
3. In my mind Lukas Dhont‘s Close, a masterfully finessed adolescent love tragedy, is a 2022 film, as I first saw it a year ago at the Cannes Film Festival. I reviewed it on 5.27.22. It technically opened on 1.27.23.
4. I caught Ari Aster‘s Beau Is Afraid (A24) on 4.12.23, and I came away convinced that it’s a loopy knockout — one of the most refreshingly surreal and Fellini-esque crazy films that anyone’s seen this century. I understand why some might hate the fact that Beau doesn’t reassure or fill in the gaps and motivations or explain itself much, but it’s definitely a serving of a goblet of fine madness. HE’s review ran on 4.12.23.
5. Stephen Frears‘ The Lost King (IFC, 3.24) was, for me, a delightful surprise, given the 78% Rotten Tomatoes score. It made me feel engaged, moderately aroused and well taken care of. My review ran on 3.24.23.
7. Jamie Dack‘s Palm Trees and Power Lines is one of bravest, chilliest and most carefully rendered sexual horror films I’ve ever seen. Not an easy sit but coldly riveting, especially during the second half. I first saw it in January ’22 under the aegis of that year’s Sundance Film Festival. HE’s review appeared on 3.2.23.
8. Florian Zeller‘s The Son (Sony Pictures Classics, 1.20.23) didn’t exactly knock me out or rattle my soul, and it certainly has a problematic ending, or so I decided as I was driving home. Directed and co-written by Zeller with Christopher Hampton. Hugh Jackman‘s brief scene with his cold bastard of a dad, played by Anthony Hopkins, is the standout. Laura Dern, Vanessa Kirby, Zen McGrath, Hugh Quarshie.
…put out horrible vibes, but they needn’t be killed because they’re unruly and threatening and scaring fellow riders. I’ve been in the presence of some crazy belligerent fucks in my time on the NYC subways, and so I know what it feels like to be a little bit concerned about one’s own safety and whatnot.
Jordan Neely, a Michael Jackson impersonator fallen upon hard mental times, reportedly had more than 40 prior arrests as well as an outstanding 2021 assault charge warrant. I therefore think it’s okay if this or that crazy guy is physically prevented from terrorizing others or is shown tough discipline in a way that says “this shit stops now.”
But choking a guy to death is Eric Garner territory…it’s in the general vicinity of George Floyd …it’s almost (but not quite) Bernard Goetz territory. And that’s why Monday’s choke-killing of Neely by a 24-year-old ex-Marine has become a big thing and will probably blow up ever further. Restraint, not suffocation.
“Americans, in short, are free to disagree with the law, but not to disobey it. No man, however prominent or powerful, and no mob, however unruly or boisterous, is entitled to defy a court of law.
“If this country should ever reach the point where any man or group of men, by force or threat of force, could long deny the demands of our court and our Constitution, then no law would stand free from doubt, no judge would be sure of his writ, and no citizen would be safe from his neighbors.”
From HE’s paywalled review, “Do Bears Shit In the Woods?“, posted on 5.22.22: The meaning of the title of R.M.N., the latest film by the great Romanian auteur Cristian Mungiu, is never revealed, or it wasn’t to me during last night’s Salle Debussy screening.
The Wiki page says that Mungiu “named the film after an acronym for rezonanța magnetica nucleara ** (‘nuclear magnetic resonance’) as the film is ‘an investigation of the brain, a brain scan trying to detect things below the surface.'”
So the film is basically about scanning the small-town minds of the residents of Recia***, a commune located in Transylvania, which most of us still associate with Dracula.
But the underlying focus isn’t vampires but racist xenophobes who fear Middle Eastern immigrants and more specifically two gentle fellows from Sri Lanka who’ve been hired to work at a local bakery.
It takes a while for the racism to emerge front and center, but a metaphorical representation is the nub of it — a phantom that lurks in the surrounding woods and more particularly within.
The phantom manifests three times — (a) in the opening scene in which the small son of Matthias (Marin Grigore), an unemployed slaughterhouse worker, is spooked by its off-screen presence while walking in the woods, (b) in the third act when a significant characters hangs himself (also in the woods), and (c) at the very end when four or five bears are spotted by Matthias after nightfall (ditto).
R.M.N. is a meditative slow-burn parable that you’ll either get or you won’t, but there’s no missing the brilliance of a one-shot town hall meeting in which the locals are demanding that the Sri Lankans be expelled from the community.
The shot lasts for roughly 17 minutes, and it’s all fast, bickering dialogue, simultaneously burrowing into the ignorance of the townies while building and deepening and man-oh-man…it’s so fucking great that I said to myself “this is it…this is what my Cristian Mungiu fixes are all about, and thank the Lords of Cannes for allowing me, a traveller from the states, to absorb this in my well-cushioned theatre seat.
The build-up narrative is about Matthias and his mute son Rudi (Mark Blenyesi), his resentful ex-wife Ana (Macrina Bârlădeanu) and Csilla, a passionate, kind-hearted bakery manager and cello player (Judith State) whom Matthias has an undefined sexual relationship with. He never says he actually “loves” her although he keeps returning to her home for solace and whatnot.
Secondary characters include the bakery owner, Mrs. Denes (Orsolya Moldován), and the local priest, Papa Otto (Andrei Finți), and a sizable gathering of anxious, agitated citizens who are basically the local reps of the Mississippi Burning club.
A certain summer film that I won’t identify has sparked an “uh-oh” research screening reaction. I’m posting only to repeat a reader’s reaction to same. Here’s how the reader, a careless writer and clumsy phraser named “Sandy“, expressed himself:
“I think [for the] first time in my life I am going to do this. If this film gets good reviews, I’ll skip it in theatres and maybe catch it on streaming later. But if it gets [really] bad reviews, I might go to watch it in a theatre just to see how cringe it is.”
Caveat emptor comment from website host #1: “All I know is that the tide has slightly turned. I’ve been noticing more negative reactions than [ones from] the initial first screening back in February. That’s not necessarily saying much as these screenings tend to not always be accurate about a film’s quality. Also, critics and audiences don’t always agree.”
Those last seven words say a mouthful, you bet. These days critics and audiences rarely agree when an allegedly daring, imaginative, high-concept movie comes along. While Joe Popcorn types will say what they say without much pretension or equivocation, Maoist foo-foo critics almost always drop to their knees in praise of the audacity of the creator…the expanding of cinematic or stylistic boundaries, oh joy!
Has there been a time like this since the launch of commercial feature-length cinema 108 years ago? I wonder. The vast majority of professional critics these days (Rotten Tomatoes, Metacritic) have shown themselves time and again to be tongue-bath whores. 85% or 90%, I mean.
Caveat emptor comment #2: “I’ve noticed, based on these last two reactions I posted, and other people I’ve spoken to, that the film’s progressive themes are layered on a tad too thickly. This is part of the reason why I believe [Maoist] critics might be kind to this film, no matter how messy it turns out to be.”
