Ruthie Stein of the San Francisco Chronicle was telling me yesterday about watching The Brothers Bloom the other day and getting more and more irritated at this guy sitting a seat or two away who wouldn’t stop laughing at the damn thing. He was having a great time. Every line that was intended to be wryly amusing or half-funny, he howled at.
After a while Stein started giving him death-ray looks. Her thoughts (which she didn’t express in words at the time) were in the general ballpark of “what the fuck are you laughing at? Will you stop it please? What’s wrong with you?”
I park my car in Stein’s garage. I’ve been there. I hate people who laugh uproariously at marginally funny movies. A couple of weeks ago a guy sitting behind me at a screening of Mike Leigh‘s Happy-Go-Lucky wouldn’t stop with the fucking giggles, and I had to restrain myself from turning around and saying, “I’m sorry but could you give it a rest? Please?”

I rolled with Steven Soderbergh‘s 260-minute Che without ever getting bored or sleepy or taking a bathroom break. But for some reason a little voice in my chest went “uh-oh” when I noticed the running time for Spike Lee‘s Miracle at St. Anna, which screens tomorrow morning at 11.

Ed Harris‘s Appaloosa is just okay. No, that sounds dimissive. It’s a decent…too negative again. It’s a solid piece of work — how’s that? But dammit, the words “not half bad” keep creeping into my head, which sounds, I realize, like damnation with faint praise. I don’t mean to put it down; I was never in serious pain. But ten minutes in I knew this was no Open Range, which in my book (and the books of many others) is the finest, best-written and most believably recreated western since Unforgiven.
I would put Appaloosa on the level of 3:10 to Yuma, more or less. In fact, I would call it a tiny bit better than that James Mangold western. There are no gay gunslingers (i.e., psychos wearing high-style leather waistcoats with buttons in the back) with makeup dirt caked onto their face. And there are no excessive fetishistic shootouts in which 89 guys get killed. It’s got a nice modest feel to it. And it’s nicely shot, very well acted (particularly by Harris, Viggo Mortensen and bad-guy Jeremy Irons) and “engaging” as far as it goes.
But it’s basically a low-key buddy movie, and as such goes in for charm and humor too much for my taste. No offense but I don’t want to be “entertained” when I’m watching a western — I want to feel it, believe it, smell the horseshit, feel the saddle ache in my ass and sense the wind on my face. Plus it doesn’t have a resounding theme (or not one that I could identify). The theme, such as it is, is basically “women come and go, and even when they come you can’t trust them. Your buddy watching your back is all that really matters in the end.”
It’s fine, it moves along, etc. I can imagine some people going to this thing and loving it. The crowd I saw it with in the Cumberland was laughing a good deal. Well, from time to time. But should you laugh at the jokes in a western? This isn’t Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. It doesn’t have that dynamic or the visual stylishens or the movie-star panache. It’s Harris and Mortensen, after all. I wish Irons could have played a good guy. He speaks with his English accent, thank God.
I have to quit again for a 5:30 pm screening upstairs. O’Horten, I’m thinking. And then I’ll head downtown for the public showing of The Burning Plain, and then a chat with director-writer Guillermo Arriaga (who’s leaving town tomorrow for some reason) and then the Burn After Reading party.

Paying attention to things in a way that I’m not, HE correspondent Moises Chiulan has noted Nikki Finke‘s breaking news that Sony has signed Sam Raimi and Tobey Maguire for a 4th and apparently 5th Spider-Man film. Zero excitement on this end…sorry.

Either you get, agree with and derive enormous delight from dry misanthropic humor…or you don’t. Either way, you certainly can’t argue with the fact that while Joel and Ethan Coen have a lot more up their sleeves than just this, when they’re in the mood to dispense their extremely low opinion of human behavior, they are masters of the form. Nobody knows from dry, diseased and delectably deadpan like these guys. It’s in their bones and their blood.

And it’s the genius of Burn After Reading, their latest, to offer another serving in a way that may seem slight or irksome to some, but it is in fact — I mean this — a major satirical meditation about everything that is empty, wanting, sad and hilariously absurd in these united and delusional states of America.
I didn’t laugh all that much, but I loved every minute of this thing. Relished it. I sat there with a bemused smile on my face, chortling every now and then but with all kinds of “yeah, right, exactly, perfect, hah!” stuff happening in my head.

The plot shenanigans are for the popcorn eaters to chew on and the disgruntled critics to bitch about; the meat and marrow of Burn After Reading is contained in the ample and delicious margins. The atmosphere, the asshole-ish line deliveries, the mocking tone, the wacked particulars, and those looks of fear, loneliness, concrete stupidity and desperation.

If you look at it this way, the movie is a feast.

If you’re on the misanthrope boat, this half-espionage, half-comedy of modern fools and manners is about as good as this sort of thing gets. But you have to forget about “laughing.” (Which is overrated anyway, despite what Joel McCrea‘s John L. Sullivan might have thought.) Because this movie is about much more than that.

You can sit there and eat your popcorn and take it as a sardonic goofball spy movie crossed with a comedy of errors that doesn’t add up to much, and that’s fine. But the meanest and cruelest jokes aren’t just the funniest, as Mort Sahl once said — they’re also the most thoughtful.

Burn After Reading is not a movie for the ages, but a modest and dead-perfect geiger-counter reading of what ails those desperate, constantly itchy and perturbed Americans in the comfortable urban areas who can’t help but shoot themselves, attack others, make mad lunges at quick money and temporal erotic satisfaction. Prisoners of their swollen egos and limited intelligence. Strivers who must (they feel) have more, who can’t be satisfied or serene, who eat the right foods, belong to health clubs, drink too much, scheme and claw too much and are natural-born comedians in the eyes of God.

Which is how Burn After Reading starts and ends, by the way — from the point of view of a sad, bemused and occasionally chuckling cosmic super-being who exists somewhere above the earth.

I haven’t even mentioned the cast — George Clooney, John Malkovich, Brad Pitt, Frances McDomand, Richard Jenkins, J.K. Simmons, David Rasche — or the beautiful note-perfect ending. But them’s the breaks when you’re doing four movies a day plus filing and parties and random chit-chats on the street.

Today’s Toronto rundown: Joel and Ethan Coen‘s Burn After Reading at 9 am, which will necessitate blowing off a 9:30 screening of The Secret Life of Bees and a 9:45 screening of Waltz With Bashir (which I missed in Cannes). A writing period from 11 to 12:30 (which will necessitate not seeing Nick and Nora’s Infinite Playlist) follows, and then comes Ed Harris‘s Appaloosa at 1 pm. (I saw Rachel Getting Married in Los Angeles so missing the 1:45 screening of this Jonathan Demme film is of no concern.)
Then comes a battle between Witch Hunt and O’Horten at 5 and 5:30, respectively. (I’ll be thinking and deciding right up to the showtimes.) The last film of the day is a public showing of Guillermo Arriaga‘s The Burning Plain, which will be followed by a chat with Arriaga and then, most likely, a party or two.

“After many years in the wilderness and being considered MIA professionally, Mickey Rourke, just like the washed-up character he plays, attempts a return to the big show in The Wrestler,” writes Variety‘s Todd McCarthy in a review posted early this evening.
“Not only does he pull it off, but Rourke creates a galvanizing, humorous, deeply moving portrait that instantly takes its place among the great, iconic screen performances. An elemental story simply and brilliantly told, Darren Aronofsky‘s fourth feature is a winner from every possible angle, although it will require deft handling by a smart distributor to overcome public preconceptions about Rourke, the subject matter and the nature of the film.
“Co-produced by Wild Bunch in France, where Rourke has retained his most loyal following through thick and thin, this is nonetheless an American picture through and through, beginning with the way it strongly evokes the gritty working-class atmosphere of numerous ’70s dramas.
“Spare but vital, and with the increasingly arty mannerisms of Aronofsky’s previous work completely stripped away, the film has the clarity and simplicity of a great Hemingway short story — there’s nothing extraneous, the characters must face up to their limited options in life, and the dialogue in Robert Siegel‘s superior script is inflected with the poetry of the everyday.”

I just stumbled out of a screening of Rian Johnson‘s The Brothers Bloom (Summit, 12.19), a sumptuous but impossibly silly and logic-free jape in the vein of…frankly, the movie it most reminded me of was the 1967 Casino Royale, which still reigns as one of the emptiest wank-off movies of the mid to late ’60s.
It’s an elaborate, European-set con-artist movie that imparts none of the fun or the thrill of the game. I didn’t know what was going on half the time, and I stopped caring around the 45-minute mark. Rachel Weisz, as a rich mark named Penelope, is lovely and delightful to hang with — I’ll give her (and the movie) that. But Adrien Brody, as the conscience-wracked half of the Brothers Bloom (sick of being a con-man, wants a real life, etc.), is glum and doleful and enervated, and infuriating for that.
Brody’s character’s last name is Bloom, as is his brother Stephen, who’s played by Mark Ruffalo…and yet Brody is repeatedly addressed as “Bloom” and Ruffalo is called “Stephen.” I fell in hate with the movie over this point alone.
I hated the relentlessly sullen poseur crap delivered by Rinko Kikuchi, who plays an appendage named “Bang Bang.” I wanted to see her knifed or shot or pushed into the ocean. All I could think when I watched Robbie Coltrane, who plays “the curator,” was “my God, the man has to lose some weight!” He’s really gone past the tipping point in terms of excess tonnage.
I lasted a little less than an hour, and I was reeling from the preciousness, the overdone contintental cutesiness, the feeling of being simultaneously mauled, tickled, fucked with and drugged by the impossibly faux-Wes Anderson style of the damn thing.
Rian obviously wants to be Wes, but this movie makes The Life Aquatic look like Yasujiro Ozu‘s Floating Weeds.
Some will say that The Brothers Bloom is lush and stylistically mesmerizing and beautiful to bathe in, in the empty sense of that term. But this is the kind of movie that appeals to 30-something Entertainment Weekly or New York magazine feature writers who have no taste to speak of.
It’s ravishingly composed and oh-so-poised with a sense of old-world European train-car romance (as it once existed 50 or 60 years ago) , and yet so stuck on its cleverness that I wanted to reach out and strangle the movie — pull it right off the screen, leap on top of it like a 350 pound wrestler and choke the life out of the damn thing . I counted at least 22 walkouts before I finally gave up. When I left two volunteers said to me, “Is it over? There are so many people leaving!” We all had a good laugh.

HE reader Chuck W. wrote to say “my daughters have voting age friends. Some of these young men and women admit they find the election interesting, but they aren’t registered. Why not? If they register, they might be subject to jury duty. I hope this is just anecdotal and not a wider trend.”