WRONG MADE RIGHT.

(Year end movie round up as published in the December 2013 edition of The Scene.)


Time to put this 2013 thing to rest with a few supplementary observations on some film bits that I failed to give proper attention to during the preceding 11 episodes of this column.

We start with a sensationally odd little tale called Wrong about a distraught young man who suddenly and inexplicably finds himself without his best friend, a fluffy canine named Paul. Said chap, calling himself Dolph (as played by Jack Plotnick) finds this is yet another in a series of steps working to unwind his already questionable mental framework. Dolph is in severe denial over being released from his standard issue office job to the point in which he continues behave as if he still belongs at his desk plugging away at his computer (beneath a ceaseless sheet of indoor rainfall, which is apparently the norm at this company) whilst his former co-workers look on in disbelief. In addition, Dolph gains the acquaintance of a collection of characters of equally off base stature. His gardener Victor (Eric Judor) draws his attention to the fact that the palm tree in his backyard has morphed into a pine tree, which isn't right, a plucky pizza delivery gal (Alexis Dziena) who takes an analytical phone debate over the nature of her store's logo as an impetus for romantic bliss and a mystery man named Mr. Chang (William Fichtner) with a direct hand in the missing pooch dilemma all work to help take poor Dolph down a weird path toward abstract enlightenment.

If the above outlined scenario comes off as more than a bit confused, it damn well should. Wrong arrives on the scene as the third directorial effort of a French bred fella named Quentin Dupieux. This is the same guy who carved out a compelling, if not in anyway logical, narrative based around the loopy concept of a homicidal tire rampaging across the desert under the observation of a group of random spectators and the pursuit of a slightly disjointed police force. That film bore the given title of Rubber and took to the cult film circuit with predictable results creating an appreciation of its director's very specific slant on many of the well trod conventions of the cinematic form. Dupieux, a man hailing from an electronic music/performance art background (established under the pseudonym 'Mr. Oizo') seems far more interested in the bending and mutating of many of the rules taken for granted by casual, everyday viewers. This tactic makes an audience member reevaluate the nature of the art form and, in particular, the  order of things in direct relation to the telling of a story. Not all cinema need unfurl in A, B, C/ straight line fashion and it is always a refreshing thing to behold when someone comes along with a complete bid to step apart from the familiar.

This Wrong film comes to the home video arena care a distributor out of Austin, Texas named Drafthouse Films. An offshoot of the Alamo Drafthouse theater chain famed for old school movie going presentation, odd duck, indie-cult programming and elaborate festivals. The video company was started in 2010 with similar, alternative ambitions. Other releases on this label have included the Belgian forgien Oscar nominee Bullhead, the 70s schlock reissue The Visitor (with a great, past their prime cast including Glenn Ford, Shelley Winters and even Sam Peckinpah) and the latest by Japanese meistro of utter oddness Sion (Love Exposure, Suicide Club,Cold Fish) Sono with the warm moniker Why Don't You Play In Hell?

The Wrong DVD includes a few handy goodies to help, possibly, flesh out some the many thematic issues and/or points of confusion likely to raise a fair measure of expected inquirey on the part of many who witness the confidently surreal world that the film presents. Phase 7-The Making of a Non-Film uses interviews and commentary by the powers involved in the production to help explain away the modus operandi behind this boy in search of dog saga while the requisite 'behind the scenes' segment actually consists of various cast and crew members giving  script readings of random portions of the storyline. Worth a look for anyone who just wants a little something to help offset the doldrums the predictiblility of most mainstream products dominating rental outlet shelves often impart. I actually stumbled on this at my local library but if one is interested enough they can check drafthousefilms.com for all the nessessary details.

Now for the rest of the stuff I can remember seeing that's worth sharing.


Spring Breakers.

Tell me you anticipated that a Harmony Korine movie would roll into a successful, wide, theatrical release riding on the gimmick of a bunch of once plucky, Disneyfied good girls getting down and debauched. Best time at the movies all year, thanks to Korine's knack for making even the most absurd degenerate behavior seem poetic and, dare I say, groovy. Four cute, hormonally imbalanced and morally confused gal pals (fleshed out by former Disney drones like Vanessa Hudgens and Selena Gomez)  rob a greasy spoon for some fast cash to fund their quest to escape their uneventful, community college life for the suds and skin orgies of beach side chaos that is the make shift spring break week of St. Petersburg, FL. An excess of substance addled partying leads to legal entanglement and an unexpected helping hand in Alien (James Franco), a local dope slinger and would be rapper who draws the heavily impressionable ladies into his world of small scale drug lording and over the top, white rapper clichés. The meat of the value of this whole wacky opus has got to be the from now on to be forever memorable performance of Mr. Franco.

Alien the motor mouthed quote machine is easily the best, pure cartoon character I've come in contact with in many a year (certainly in this movie going season). Franco's roll call of all his many trivial material trinkets ('look at my shit') is my pick for the film's best stand alone scene and the energy the actor derives from this larger than life and then some persona works to lift an already potent Korine opus to the next level of 'beautifully' disturbed. The music at play in the picture works to perfection as well as the visuals (sorry Skrillex haters) and I am quite sure I will never think of the work of Britney Spears in quite the same way again (you'll understand once you've seen the film).

Pacific Rim.

The best of the big summer specticles that I got around to checking out. Guillermo del Toro's vivid mash up of Robotech-ish anime and big reptile monsters knocking shit over is the kind of colorful, fun for the sake of being fun epic that we just don't see enough of anymore. Duel pilot mecha suits named Jaegers smash into ugly, turtle like bastards called Kaiju (Japanese for 'strange creature', natch) in order to stave off the end of all things we humans cling to on this rock called Earth. Simple concept, sure, but it has a kind of Saturday morning cartoon vibe that del Toro has employed so strongly in the past (as in his two Hellboy films) that works fine here to present a loud, sprawling summer epic that avoids the murk and dreariness that dulled much of its (unfortunately higher grossing) competition like the underwhelming Man of Steel or the mostly dreadful Word War Z. I actually hope they pursue the film's sequel potential.

The World's End.

More effortless fun and genre blending from the trio of film maker Edgar Wright (bouncing way back from that forgettable Scott Pligrim misfire) and his fave actors Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. As with the slacker sitcom vs zombie flick homage of Shaun of the Dead and the buddy cop meets gore chic murder mystery devices of Hot Fuzz this film marries seemingly unrelated themes and styles to oddly maximum effect. A group of old friends who have greatly drifted apart are brought unexpectedly together by their least formidable member (Pegg) who posits a return to their glory days of drunken abandon with a 12 step pub crawl that he hopes will fully congeal their long estranged social bond. Once this proposal is set in motion the lads slowly discover the general populace surrounding them is not quite on par with one would call genuine humanity. A strange presence has integrated itself into the horde and the film reveals this in methods both goofy and startling. The World's End shifts smoothly from manic comedy replete with plentiful gags and one-liners to something cooly creepy and rich with a stout John Carpenter vibe as the whole thing winds its way to some truly inspired and unexpected reveals. Fresh on home video shelves as I write this. Get to it.

Other films of note I caught throughout the year include, Gravity which every much has earned its reputation as one of the few films one must attend at the theater (and the bigger the screen, the better). An absolute mastery of the cinematic form by Mexican director Alfonso Cuaron who succeeds in placing the viewer in what has to be as close to the experience of floating in the endless void of outer space can ever be conveyed to the common human. That and Sandra Bullock is confoundingly solid in the role of the poor sod who must overcome seemingly endless odds to escape a crippled space station and make her way back to Mamma Earth. Simple outline, increadible execution on all technical fronts. Prince Avalanche marked a much needed return to form of sorts for one time indie voice on the rise David Gordon Green. Green, once responsible for such odd treasures as George Washington and Undertow forged a name in conventional terms as a writer/director of comedic efforts like The Pineapple Express and the heavily profane East Bound & Down cable show. He faultered somewhat with a pair of unremarkable flicks (Your Highness, The Sitter) but seems to have regained his footing here with this spare yet genuine character study of two  conflicting personas, young and easily bored Lance (Emile Hirsch) and his sister's strict and internalized beau Alvin (Paul Rudd) as they spend a summer repainting highway road lines in the wake of a devastating forest fire. Concerned more with nuances of personality and carefully measured performances, Prince Avalanche is a reassuring sign that this director has not forgotten the skill set that helped make him in the first place.

12 Years a Slave is the anti-Django and director Steve McQueen makes damn certain that point is made paramount in this, his third film and soon to be Oscar dominator. The film is based on the slave narrative by Solomon Northup and details his abduction from his productive life as a freeman violin player in New York and subsequent violent induction into the brutal plantation realm of the dirty south. McQueen and his splendid cast and crew create a harsh and even suffocating experience that goes to great lengths to make sure any audience game enough to endure it will take away from it the value of any living man, woman or child's individual freedom and complete peace of mind. Expect to hear a ton more about this fearless sucker come February, particularly in regards to McQueen and many of his chief actors (i.e. Chiwetel Ejiofor and a raging Michael Fassbender). Still rolling in theaters everywhere. Don't fear it, see it.

Lastly, a few further, much briefer notes of some good (if not great) options for y'all when next you decide to make it a movie night.
Pawn Shop Chronicles for further cementing the belief I have that director Wayne Kramer is a truly gifted master of purely unexpected character quirks and sheer, perverse dementia (see also his earlier film Running Scared) and also that Elijah (Frodo) Wood is destined to own a lofty place within the ranks of the all time cinematic creepers. V/H/S 2 for handily topping both its predessessor and the much more hyped ABC's of Death in a bid for the current horror anthology crown.

The Place Beyond the Pines for proving with little doubt that a film with both Ryan Gosling AND Bradley Cooper can capture the attention of an audience encompassing more than just swooning females (see also Only God Forgives for additional, man friendly Gosling). Mud, the latest significant statement from director Jeff Nichols and actor Matthew McConaughey (whose latest slate of films deserves an article all unto their own). I have enjoyed all that Nichols has put forth to date and from what I hear his next project is set to be a sci-fi picture serving tribute to the ever influencial Johnny Carpenter. Expect to hear far more detailed rambling about Mr. Nichols and his work sometime in the none so distant future. Grabbers is a decent, Irish drinking man's monster movie with slimy, tentacled beasties besieging a desolate island community where the most potent weapon of retaliation is a high concentration of alcohol in the bloodstream. No joke, IFC put it out which means Family Video outlets will surely carry it.

That'll do it, happy present giving. See you in the 2014.

SOMETIMES, A BEAUTIFUL DELIRIUM.

50 Films/50 States Part 5.

I have trouble dissecting the eccentricities of the human mind sometimes. Even though I am a card carrying member of this so-called 'race', I find that many of my fellow man, woman and child things possess a measured degree of character differentiation that sets them at sharp odds to my given perspective. Because of my nerdy predilection for cinema, I often find myself scrapping for clues to the how, what and why of the human mechanism within the confines of the motion picture medium. I got several choice examples of what I'm on about right here, plus it will serve to knock off a few more states in the process.
Take, for handy instance, the irresistible, eye sore of deliberate tragedy that is the life of Jonathon Sharkey. Here is a feller so bent in the direction of wrong that he can justify maintaining a lifestyle mash-up of blood drinking, neo-satanism and all around pagan/goth/macho posturing while fostering such lofty political ambitions as running for the part of Governor of the state of Minnesota! His bold and (some might add) dunder headed attempts at such serve as a sort of spring board for an awkward yet functionally amusing, shot for the bare minimum documentary/case study titled, in all fair taste, Impaler.
Said title hails from Sir. Sharkey's blunt platform of discipline in relation to a wide range of criminals and lowlifes. Sharkey states plainly, early on in the film, that any and all terrorists, drug dealers and baby rapers (for scant example) will be subject to blunt force trial, torture and eventually decapitation and impalement. This warped unit sees himself as a bastion of hope for his beloved America (Sharkey also holds future plans of a Presidential run, something that should fitfully suit another film, likely already in the works) and not some weak kneed failure like George W. Bush (himself a ripe target for Sharkey-esque impalement).





All this rant savvy 'look at me, I'm weird!' type nonsense leads to, really is a patchwork dissertation on the punishing particulars of living under the grip of mental illness. In this instance, the filmmakers (Texas native W. Tray White being the main man) have gleaned acute evidence of this man's suffocating urge to dance in the proverbial spotlight. You see folks, in addition to his proclaimed status as a devil adoring, vampiric lord, Jon claims to have plied his natural genius in such arenas as Nascar, pro-wrestling and Law (for a more expansive rundown on all this, check his IMDB profile- http://www.imdb.com/name/nm2652647/bio- it'll enrich your life! no really!). Of course, all of this grows more and more pathetic as the film strays from in house chats with Sharkey and his school bus driver lady friend in snowbound Princeton, MN to outside parties (ex-spouses, pals and legal officials) who tend to highlight the copious holes in Sharkey's train of logic. Overall, not an unbearable slice of 'you can't make this shit up' style of human interest reportage. Plus, it always does my heart good to see any form of social commentary in relation to that lake and lousy sports team saturated state with the often odd-duck political representatives (Jesse 'The Body' Ventura, Al Franken, Brett Favre) that resides just to the west of us. Impaler can be readily snatched off of netflix...probably about all the effort one needs to expend on it.






A man of equally potent, yet immensely more positive, self design is humble, God fearing, workaholic South Carolina resident Pearl Fryer. The man is a self taught topiary wonderkind and honed local institution who finds himself in front of the camera lens for the quint little feature A Man Named Pearl. Like Impaler, this film serves as a small scale (though more effectively rendered) intro to a genuine American curio at large just off the beaten path. The precise setting is Bishopville (pop. 3,600-ish), located (in Lee county, what's said to be the poorest county in the state) out in the open spaces between the more sizable state populaces of Florance and Columbia. It is here that ol' Mr. Fryer has carved and maintained one of his state's (and most certainly his town's) more esteemed attractions.




Since relocating to Bishopville in the mid 1970s, Pearl has managed to stun and bewilder his mostly simple and set in their ways neighbors by transforming the yard of his domicile into an organic gallery of sprawling art. Pearl toils tirelessly at sculpting, trimming and nurturing the many elaborate designs in his 3+ acre garden that has earned a word of mouth legend that attracts bus loads of tourists to this sleepy little stop off the road that may have otherwise never even registered on most folks' radar. This ongoing life's work now works to solidify this community and keep it healthy. Mr. Pearl lends his knowledge and a shade of his potent work ethic to area (and, sometimes, statewide) children and students, attempting to instill in them a level of self value that can only grow and mature along with them. As a character, Pearl is a gentle, labor worn yet vigorous individual with an even balance of traditional rural morals and free spirit impulse. His thick east-southern drawl and wiry, lanky stance make for one memorable screen figure. Credit to directors Scott Galloway and Brent Pierson for collaborating on a warm and informative piece that always respects this southern gentleman and true artist for every quirky aspect that fuels him. Well shot and economic, A Man Named Pearl never wares out its welcome. Available from the good folks at Docurama, don't believe me? Check here- www.docurama.com/docurama/a-man-named-pearl-dvd-cd-set
A slight bit of pace changing for this next entry in that it is not so much a standard issue feature, per se, but more of an epic and on going small screen offering that breaks down the graphic dramatics of one urban locale yet plays it off as wholly symbolic of many of the other cityscapes in the given region.
Brick City, as the title suggests, is a deep rooted delineation of the largest city (Newark) in what is commonly passed off as the Garden State (New Jersey). Now, I know I could have easily picked this state off of my convoluted 50/50 checklist by virtue of some dispensable dick, tits and fart joke addled Kevin Smith movie or, maybe even something a tad more upscale, say the Louis Malle opus Atlantic City or....hell, there's even a movie called Garden State .
Nah brah, I'm sticking to the real shit. This here Brick City thing is a Sundance Channel backed series (season one covered here, season two recently completed) that covers the modern day quest of positivity obsessed mayor Cory Booker to restore order and integrity to the long impoverished and crime ravaged city he now oversees. Booker and his all star team of do good types and various, assorted low income street citizens work though the tension and turmoil of urban renewal and the challenges of slapping order over top of the kind of embedded chaos that doesn't conveniently subside.




The scope of this subject matter is intricately addressed within the project's 260 minute sprawl. Subplots, asides and effectively placed injections of humor work as second and third tier support systems to the greater central ambitions of community, family, economy and the cancerous detriment that the city's ever present criminal element brings (murder's the word, ya heard?!). At the front of it all is Booker, the bright light of hope or frustrating pain in the metro ass (all depending on which talking head's speechifying one buys into). The mayor and his tireless quest to reverse his city's negative level of notoriety and maintain the sanity of both himself and his loyal crew (gruff Director of Police Garry McCarthy most notably) veers back and forth from the cruel reality of gang related homicide, which is haphazard and unyielding, to a cheerful downtown distraction for the positive like a visiting big ticket circus troupe. Intermixed with Booker's renovation campaign are the immediately related struggles of several reformed gang banger cum social activist types, feuding politicos and even a feisty lawyer pulling to save one key (and very pregnant) young lady out of jail.
This truly is what one might legitimately refer to as 'quality television', the dearth of such stuff on the small screen in recent years (shows like 'Lost' and 'Dexter' not withstanding) makes a rare breakthrough like this one here ever more special. The team of Marc Levin and Mark Benjamin have assembled and finessed a staggering amount of material into a still fat and epic dissertation on the pains of urban discipline and the harsh truths of classism and social/economic imbalance that could well serve as a metaphor for most sizable cities in the state of New Jersey (I've been to Newark and been told by those in the know there various 'ghetto' anecdotes, with all the worst signs pointing to Camden). The show was first aired on the Sundance Channel but can easily be obtained in the ever dependable DVD format with a sprinkling of bonus features including input from executive producer Forest Whitaker (one can also obtain further background nuggets on Cory Booker care a defacto prequel of sorts titled Street Fight and covering Booker's initial trial and error attempts to become the Newark mayor-par excellence). So, without fail, you must get your Jersey learn-on the real way, track the first, five part, season of Brick City at all costs starting with this website; firstrunfeatures.com
Backing away from documentary overkill, it is time now to pay respects to a film I find is one of the best and most complete experiences of recent years. That and it all takes place in and all over my birth state of California. Paul Thomas Anderson's fifth feature, There Will Be Blood (Paramount Vantage) is, for me, a complete beast of a film that executes on such a high and consistent level of sheer film making finesse that reminds me once again what being a film geek is all about.
This is the movie that finally made full and robust usage of that most particular and fascinating of quality modern screen actors, Daniel Day-Lewis, that possessive screen presence that made the most of his place in such otherwise underwhelming A-list affairs as Gangs of New York and In the Name of the Father. Here, Lewis is given no restriction and the picture is his to dominate and he never disappoints, plowing through an epic (158 minute) saga of gusto, greed and the savage means to which the main character, an oil obsessed entrepreneur named Daniel Plainview hell bent on monopolizing the turn of the century California landscape, pursues his meal ticket, no matter the social, moral or spiritual cost. Plainview uses methods of keen manipulation and smooth oratory skills to rest area folk assured that his goals are lofty and genuine enough to prove beneficial toward them and their related communities in the long run. Meanwhile, he proceeds to dig and drill his way toward increasing wealth and a rapidly distancing attitude toward the very nature of mankind. Plainview finds direct conflict in the shape of several pesky, intrusive bodies such as a dodgy, alleged long lost sibling (Kevin J. O'Connor, hailing from, you guessed it- Fond Du Lac!) as well as an equally shifty young vessel for the good lord's word, a preacher named Eli Sunday (Paul Dano) who ultimately shares in Plainview's descent to the very bitter end.
What P. T. Anderson has done with this film, by far his best, is fashioned a magnificent, fully realized work of art, not simply dispensable commercialized 'entertainment' as fodder that passes by the eyes well enough without ever entering the brain for any substantial measure of time. He has even surpassed his previous, very good, Robert Altman in the time of Tarantino style fables Boogie Nights and Magnolia in terms of storytelling, strength of character and virtually every facet of technical prowess one can think of. The film looks grand, is cut great and boasts one immaculate sound mix topped, above all, by the eerie/beautiful minimalist score from Radiohead lead guitarist Jonny Greenwood. Yes, my friends, this is, as in the parlance of the drunken youth of this sad modern hell, the shit. Eternal props to Anderson, D. D. Lewis and the rest of the There Will Be Blood commune. This is the perfect mix of light and dark, art and actuality, elegance and cruelty. Probably not the type of graphic banter many will agree upon in the direction of this film but, no matter say I, this is a glorious slab of misanthropic poetry set to separate the deep thinker with the keen sense of cinema from the gaggle of 'bros' in vapid search of the next big Hangover.
Ugh, all out of words. Next month, more movies, more states, more brotherly love for one and all!