Girl Detective

Martin Ritt’s black and white noir-looking adaptation of John Le Carre’s Spy Who Came in from the Cold is bleak and beautiful. Richard Burton is Alec Leamas, an English spy. His voice and presence are modulated just enough so he doesn’t burst the bounds of the character. His acting was perhaps better suited to stage than film, but he looks appropriately harrowed and ravaged.

I’m a man, you fool. Don’t you understand? A plain, simple, muddled, fat-headed human being. We have them in the West, you know.

Claire Bloom, whose third husband was writer Phillip Roth, is lovely as a Communist co-worker.

The film is strikingly sharp in the new Criterion Collection edition, which includes an informative and entertaining interview with Le Carre done for the new edition. Alas, we had to watch the dvd over two nights, and I’m abashed to admit I couldn’t stay awake for either. My husband G. Grod had to explain the finer points of the complex plot. I highly recommend it in any case. The fault is more likely with me and parental fatigue, not with this classic film.

Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist, a teen comedy/romance based on the YA novel by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan, is utterly charming, if not that original. I was reminded of Better Off Dead and Adventures in Babysitting, both of which I loved when I was in high school. I imagine this is the example of those movies for this generation.

Michael Cera is adorable as Nick, pining for his skanky ex-girlfriend Tris.

I never wash my pants. I like to keep the night on them.

Kat Dennings is not quite believable as the doesn’t-know-she’s gorgeous Norah. Ari Graynor is hilariously innappropriate as the drunk friend.

Is that a turkey sandwich?

Cera’s gay bandmates are a nice, modern touch. And there are great cameos by John Cho, Andy Samberg, Seth Myers, and Devendra Banhart. This isn’t rocket science but I found it funny, sweet and involving.

Miller’s Crossing is one of my husband G. Grod’s favorite films. We watched it early in our courtship as part of our getting-to-know-each-other-via-media-we-loved.

What’s the rumpus?

I think it’s one of, if not THE, best Coen Brothers film. G. and I saw The Glass Key (1942) earlier this week, based on the novel by Dashiell Hammett. Miller’s Crossing is based both on The Glass Key and Red Harvest.

Gabriel Byrne is Tom, the cynical right hand man of Albert Finney’s crime boss Leo. Irish Leo is dating Verna (a wonderful Marcia Gay Harden), who asks him to protect her brother Bernie. The Eye-talians in town don’t like Jewish Bernie–”It’s a matter of ethics”–and a gang war ensues. Lots of people end up dead. Unlike The Glass Key, there’s not an artificially upbeat ending.

The film is beautifully shot, and uses the cinematography to show a lot of the story, rather than having someone tell it. There are memorable shots, both gorgeous and gruesome. Carter Burwell’s Irish-influenced score also does a lot to create mood in the film. There are any number of great lines,

Black is white. Up is down.

Careful viewing is rewarded. Finney is dressed as a maid for a scene in a women’s bathroom. Parents of young children will probably recognize as a bookie’s agent the late Michael Jeter, who also played Mr. Noodle’s brother Mr. Noodle from Elmo’s World on Sesame Street. Sam Raimi shows he’s better behind the camera than in front of it in a gleeful attack scene. Frances McDormand (married to Joel Coen) has a cameo as a secretary.

Next up in related viewing will probably be Kurosawa’s Yojimbo, based on Red Harvest, the other source book for MC, and Clint Eastwood in Sergio Leone’s Fistful of Dollars, a remake of Yojimbo. And maybe some cheerful movies in between.

Is there a better film to watch on one’s birthday than Casablanca*? As Roger Ebert notes in his commentary on the film, it’s a film that people who don’t like black and white films like, that people who don’t like old movies like, that people who don’t like romance films like, and that no critic has criticized.

What can I possibly say beyond that? It’s a lovely film. It made Bogart a star. And it rivals Hamlet and the Bible for number of lines that have become part of the warp and woof of popular culture. The famous last line, in fact, is often misquoted and was added as an afterthought.

Are there better films? Yes. More enjoyable ones? Not many.

*Other candidates: The Long Goodbye and The Third Man.

I’d like to thank the Academy for a shorter, more entertaining Oscar show this year. I’d also like to thank my husband G. Grod for enabling my pre-Oscar movie-watching compulsion. I saw SEVEN movies. In SEVEN days. Talk about indulgence.

G and I watched The Visitor together. It might not have been his pick for the flick to watch on his birthday, but we both enjoyed it. Richard Jenkins is winning in this quiet movie about a lonely man moved into engagement by the people he meets, and the injustice of post-9/11 US immigration laws (or lack thereof). It’s an excellent rental.

Then we did a complete 180, like a U-turn on the Batcycle, and watched The Dark Knight. 5yo Drake and 3yo Guppy were difficult about going to bed. I’d wanted to start watching early, since it’s so long. Oh, well, I thought. We’ll just watch part of it. Ha. As if. Two hours and forty-five minutes later… Dark Knight is loud, scary, provocative, in your face–the antithesis of a quiet movie. Thus, I find it kinda perfect for the times. Great plot, character, actors, etc. This WAS one of the best movies of the year, no matter what Oscar said.

Then I hijacked my kids in my Oscar compulsion and we watched Wall E. And were amazed all over again. Animation? I don’t think so. Science that looks like magic? You betcha. Remember all the critics who wondered if kids would like it since there was no dialogue for most of the movie? Watch it with a kid. The kids GET it. They LOVE it. How can you not? Best movie of the year? For me, yep.

Next was The Reader. Woo. Another movie mash-up whiplash. I saw it at St. Anthony Main, not usually my first pick of theaters, and there was an enormous night-before-Oscars line. But the staff did a great job–moved people through efficiently and with smiles, and delayed the starts of movies so no one missed out. As for the movie, I don’t think the world needs another Holocaust movie. Or another movie that shows that people can do horrible things but still be good people. Ooh, look, it’s complicated. However, Winslet is still living in my head in that role. Even though her turn in Revolutionary Road seemed technically better, her role in The Reader has quietly insinuated itself into my head.

Then, after weeks of attempts, I finally made it to the ONE theater in town showing Rachel Getting Married. It was a lot darker, and less funny, than I expected. It felt exactly like attending an often-uncomfortable but still happy wedding weekend. But the performances, especially Hathaway’s, were more than worth it. Hathaway completely embodied her haunted, selfish, struggling ex-junkie, hatchet-hair, slept-in-my-kohl-liner look. She’s played an ingenue before? Coulda fooled me. Rosemarie DeWitt (Midge from Mad Men) was appropriately loving and exhausted as her long-suffering sister. But Debra Winger was the surprise standout for me–so cold and brittle I felt frost-bitten just watching her.

At which point G. Grod thought, “whew, the Oscars are tonight. She’ll stop going out all the time.” Then he looked at the calendar, and said, “D’oh!” Because last night was Take Up Productions noir double feature at the Heights, with Criss Cross, and The Killers.

I blame my friend Kate for my compulsion to mix Dots and popcorn, but thank her for the guilty deliciousness. As for the films, there weren’t a lot of happy endings for Burt Lancaster and his femme fatales, but their pain was our gain. Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite manage 3+ hours of movie, and was nodding off by the end. I’m off to look up the ending to The Killers, and rest up for the next double feature, The Blue Dahlia and The Glass Key, in two weeks. The Big Clock is next week. Other than that I’ll try to give G. a break and switch gears back to reading, and transfer my consumption compulsion to the books for the Morning News 2009 Tournament of Books.

I’d heard about this cult film for some time, but it was only when Wet Hot American Summer was mentioned in most reviews of David Wain’s most recent film, Role Models, which I enjoyed, that I decided to see it finally.

Wet Hot American Summer is set in Maine at a Jewish summer camp in 1981. The outfits are hilarious, the hairstyles cringe-inducing, and the stereotypes broad, but still funny.

Now finish up them taters; I’m gonna go fondle my sweaters.

It’s a self-deprecating mash up of summer-camp, teen, and underdog/geek films. Paul Rudd is the handsome counselor so cool he doesn’t even have a cabin of kids. Janeane Garofalo is the camp director, David Hyde Pierce a nerdy neighbor on whom she has a crush, and Christopher Meloni the off-balance Vietnam vet who listens to a talking can of vegetables. Michael Showalter as geeky Coop, who has a crush on pretty Katie, Rudd’s girlfriend, is much less funny and charming than he ought to be as the lead. Instead he’s kind of creepy. I couldn’t tell if that was deliberate, since it’s such a wacky film, or if he had the role because he was the writer/producer.

I found it frequently hilarious. My husband G. Grod found it less so. But while he said he thought it was terrible, he watched most of the extras with me, so I think this one at least qualifies as a good-bad movie. It was mostly well-reviewed, especially by Owen Gleiberman at Entertainment Weekly, when it came out.

I read too many reviews of The Wrestler before I saw it. They didn’t give away the ending, but they did spoil the small joys of the film, which are many. So I’ll say very little.

Mickey Rourke’s performance is amazing. The film is a deep, involving character study, though it works less well as a holistic story. Marisa Tomei is also strong, but I thought director Darren Aronofsky should have been more sparing in the use of nudity, which felt gratuitous. Similarly, I have lingering discomfort over Aronofsky’s deliberate blurring of the line between Rourke and his character. Still, it’s a powerful, moving film. See it before some of what’s great about it is spoiled, either by reviews or by the deserved attention it’s receiving.

I found the recent Wuthering Heights Masterpiece adaptation on PBS mostly disappointing. It felt romanticized rather than rough; Wuthering Heights looked much too clean.

EDITED TO ADD in 2014. Originally I said some flip and unkind things here about Charlotte Riley as Catherine and some production decisions. They were excerpted elsewhere and read by Riley and others, and I was correctly chastised for my glib, bitchy tone. I’m trying to be entertaining on this blog, but as Nigel notes in This is Spinal Tap, there’s a fine line between clever and stupid. Thus, I will say after re-watching this adaptation, Riley is spirited and lovely as Cathy, but her groomed eyebrows and white teeth made her look too modern to me. (end of this edit)

Heathcliff, on the other hand, was done very well by Tom Hardy. His crooked teeth, wild hair, large frame, jolie-laide countenance and well-done acting all helped convey the palpable menace, sexiness and craziness that is this complex character.

I’ll re-read the book soon, as I couldn’t tell quite how many liberties they took with the dialogue.

Edited to add after a 2014 rereading of that Oxford edition. The 2009 version takes a number of liberties with the text, including having Cathy and Heathcliff actually consummate their passion, and Heathcliff actively takes his own life at the end. It’s one of the few adaptations that does include both generations, though, and Hardy does Heathcliff well, so I do recommend it. Also, Riley and Hardy ended up together in real life, so Riley FTW, says I.

I remember the glowing reviews of Richard Roeper and Michael Phillips on Ebert and Roeper At the Movies when Snow Angels came out, so I was excited when the dvd finally came in at the library. My husband G. Grod said he didn’t want to watch it, as it would be too depressing. Alas, he was right. Snow Angels starts with a hint of tragedy to come, but that hint has nothing on the tragedy that does come, which is all the more wrenching for its unexpectedness.

The film has a lot going for it. Much of the imagery is beautiful, and lingers. There is a sweet, mostly believable romance between teens Michael Angarano and Olivia Thirlby. Both Angarano and Sam Rockwell give tremendous and moving performances.

Less successful is Kate Beckinsale, less because of her acting ability than because she no longer looks like a real-enough person to be believable in a small-town tale like this. Her long, groomed hair, the sculpted slope of her nose, her full lips, her lack of forehead movement, and her inflated chest all reminded me of a Barbie doll, not a believable, sympathetic character. Especially in scenes with Rockwell, Beckinsale’s look rang false, both because of its artificiality, and because her superficial prettiness was not a match for Rockwell’s everyday schlub. A.O. Scott had a similar reaction, from his review:

As for Ms. Beckinsale, her skill and discipline cannot overcome the sense that she is an exotic species transplanted into this grim ecosystem. Hard as she works to convince us otherwise, it’s a stretch to believe that a woman with the kind of poised confidence in her own beauty she manifests would wind up with an underachieving mouth breather like Glenn.

This boy/girl imbalance was also the only false note for me in the teen romance. Angarano was charmingly, geekily real. Thirlby, though, is so attractive, cool and self assured that she’s more likely to be that kid’s fantasy than his actual girlfriend.

The grand scale of the tragedy, along with the disruptive feel of these male/female pairs, left me wishing I’d skipped this one.

As part of a recent Role Models-inspired resurgence of my crush on Paul Rudd, I re-watched Knocked Up for the first time since I saw it in theaters. Hilarious if you’re a fan of the painful/funny Judd Apatow brand of humor. This reverse Cinderella story is overly long, but not obnoxiously so.

I made inroads into the even-more overly long extras on the 2-disc DVD. Thus far, I found Line-o-Ramas, Gag Reels, Roller Coaster documentary, Finding Ben Stone, and Director’s Video diary to be funny and worthwhile. Not worthwhile: Directing the Director; Gummy: The Sixth Roommate; Kuni files; Stripper Confidential. I think I’m going to dive into the rest, as a number of reviews say that the commentary is hilarious, and the extended scenes are worth watching.

Last New Year’s Eve we watched Roman Holiday, this one we watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s, from our Audrey Hepburn box set. It’s a fractured love story between Hepburn and George Peppard, two young dreamers who take money from older people in exchange for sex. Hepburn is charming and loopy. Her fashions in this film, by Edith Head and Hubert de Givenchy, established her to this day as an icon. Peppard is handsome and stern as the struggling writer, by turns her complement and her reflection.

There’s a lot to enjoy and appreciate about the film, but I have trouble with it, too. Mickey Rooney’s Mr. Yunioshi is beyond painful to behold and had to have been in poor taste, even then. Hepburn’s rendition of “Moon River” is too saccharine for my tastes, as is the subplot with the cat, and the ending. Most troubling to me, though, are Peppard’s claims that he loves her and she belongs to him.

Paul Varjak: I love you.
Holly Golightly: So what.
Paul Varjak: So what? So plenty! I love you, you belong to me!
Holly Golightly: [tearfully] No. People don’t belong to people.
Paul Varjak: Of course they do!
Holly Golightly: I’ll never let ANYBODY put me in a cage.
Paul Varjak: I don’t want to put you in a cage, I want to love you!

This, more than anything, prevents me from perceiving the movie as romantic; to me it’s an odd little film. I wonder if my impression comes closer to the spirit of Truman Capote’s story than to the polished package of its Hollywood marketing.

Finally, the copyeditor in me must point out that it’s Tiffany, not Tiffany’s. I’m surprised that they didn’t insist on the correction.