3 1/2 out of 4 Stars
The Zero Theorem is the latest installment in the dystopian society trilogy from the surreal and philosophical mind of Terry Gilliam. Like Gilliam's previous nightmarish-epics (Brazil and 12 Monkeys), The Zero Theorem is a futuristic look at a society ruled by an Orwellian presence of bureaucracy and corporations. At the center of this hectic society is Qohen (Pronounced "Cohen", not "Quinn"), an introverted data processor who cannot handle the real world outside of his home as he requests Management (Matt Damon emulating Richard Burton with cold reserve) to crunch numbers away from the office. Qohen finds himself to be the head of the Zero Theorem project, in which he tries to compute, day in and day out, an equation in which zero equals 100% leading him into a world in which his sanity and social inequalities are tested by those around him.
Christoph Waltz is amazing as the unhinged and introverted Qohen. Funny and moving, Waltz captures the essence of a man bogged down by a technologically driven society and trying to find solace in his life in the most surreal ways, such as virtual reality dating with Bainsley, played by a vivacious and zesty Melanie Thierry. Assisting Qohen is the optimistic and foolish Joby portrayed by a hilarious David Thewlis and the son of Management played by Lucas Hedges. When not being in the presence of his coworkers and superiors, Qohen is synthesized and deconstructed by a nutty psychotherapist played by an always amazing Tilda Swinton.
The film does steer into some head-scratching hairpin turns in terms of the story, yet that is the beauty of a Terry Gilliam film. Through the dark and humorous mind that has crafted the satirical and surrealist cartoons for Monty Python's Flying Circus, Gilliam manages to make a version of Her that is more visceral and wild mixed with a genuine cautionary tale about how we can nor cannot socialize in an over-saturated world of technology.
Friday, September 19, 2014
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Frank
3 1/2 out of 4 Stars
Frank is a surreal, hilarious, and moving portrait about the struggle for fame and the struggle with reality. Based on Jon Ronson's semi-autobiographical story, Jon Burroughs (Domhnall Gleeson) is an aspiring singer-songriter who is brought in to play keyboards for a band called the Soronprfbs led by Frank (Michael Fassbender), the lead singer who is unseen by all due to a football-sized head he wears over his own head; think of Daft Punk meets Peter Gabriel during his stint with Genesis. After a five minute gig in a Welsh pub, Jon is recruited by Frank to live in a desolate part of Ireland to record the Soronprfbs debut album. The recording process leads Jon to question his own musical talents whilst working with a band that is as hilariously dysfunctional as Spinal Tap.
Acting as mediator to the band and to Frank's introverted state is Clara (Maggie Gyllenhaal), a shrill Theremin player with a voice as hauntingly sedative as Nico from the Velvet Underground's first album (listen to her rendition of a song from "A Clockwork Orange"). As she despises Jon's attempts to get the band play at the South by Southwest music festival (SXSW), Frank cherishes Jon's promises of the band being recognized for their music as opposed to their comical fights on stage. As the Soronprfbs prepare for their album to be finished and their performance at SXSW, a series of mysterious events occur leaving you guessing what's in Frank's head and who is in Frank's head.
Michael Fassbender gives a comically brilliant and heartfelt performance as Frank; even though he's shrouded in plastic throughout most of the film, Fassbender emphasizes the mystery of Frank with his eccentric behavior leading to a stunning conclusion. Domhnall Gleeson gives a great performance as Jon as he blends ambition with journalistic observations of his life revolved around Frank. Maggie Gyllenhaal is hilariously cold as Clara by walking on the tightrope between obsessive control and the compulsive desire for love.
Directed by Lenny Abrahamson (Adam & Paul, What Richard Did), Frank is a sublime cautionary tale about the quest for fame mixed in with the struggle with self-identity.
Frank is a surreal, hilarious, and moving portrait about the struggle for fame and the struggle with reality. Based on Jon Ronson's semi-autobiographical story, Jon Burroughs (Domhnall Gleeson) is an aspiring singer-songriter who is brought in to play keyboards for a band called the Soronprfbs led by Frank (Michael Fassbender), the lead singer who is unseen by all due to a football-sized head he wears over his own head; think of Daft Punk meets Peter Gabriel during his stint with Genesis. After a five minute gig in a Welsh pub, Jon is recruited by Frank to live in a desolate part of Ireland to record the Soronprfbs debut album. The recording process leads Jon to question his own musical talents whilst working with a band that is as hilariously dysfunctional as Spinal Tap.
Acting as mediator to the band and to Frank's introverted state is Clara (Maggie Gyllenhaal), a shrill Theremin player with a voice as hauntingly sedative as Nico from the Velvet Underground's first album (listen to her rendition of a song from "A Clockwork Orange"). As she despises Jon's attempts to get the band play at the South by Southwest music festival (SXSW), Frank cherishes Jon's promises of the band being recognized for their music as opposed to their comical fights on stage. As the Soronprfbs prepare for their album to be finished and their performance at SXSW, a series of mysterious events occur leaving you guessing what's in Frank's head and who is in Frank's head.
Michael Fassbender gives a comically brilliant and heartfelt performance as Frank; even though he's shrouded in plastic throughout most of the film, Fassbender emphasizes the mystery of Frank with his eccentric behavior leading to a stunning conclusion. Domhnall Gleeson gives a great performance as Jon as he blends ambition with journalistic observations of his life revolved around Frank. Maggie Gyllenhaal is hilariously cold as Clara by walking on the tightrope between obsessive control and the compulsive desire for love.
Directed by Lenny Abrahamson (Adam & Paul, What Richard Did), Frank is a sublime cautionary tale about the quest for fame mixed in with the struggle with self-identity.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
Boyhood
4 out of 4 stars
There are few films this year that have made me both laugh and cry and Richard Linklater's Boyhood is one of those films. Boyhood focuses on the life of Mason and his family over the course of 12 years, which is how long it took Linklater to film, and charting the ebbs and flows of his life: parental separation, his first love, and his first day of college. During the 12 year journey, Linklater chronicles the major events of the last decade (Iraq, the rise in social media, the 2008 election) with subtlety rather than being a major plot point a la Forrest Gump or an episode of The Wonder Years. Combining the wanderlust style of his previous works (Slacker, Dazed and Confused, and Waking Life), Linklater's two hour and forty-five minute epic cuts against the grain of the generic, bloated, coming-of-age films with a visual style and story that is ambitious as it is original.
An unknown actor from Texas who was 7 when he started the film and 19 when he finished, Ellar Coltrane is amazing as Mason as he gives a genuine and authentic performance. Patricia Arquette gives an incredible performance as Mason's mother as she deals with the hardships of being a single mother and her own journey in providing for her two children. Her performance is reminiscent of Ellen Burstyn's leading role in Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore as she does what she can to find happiness for herself and her family. Ethan Hawke gives his best performance as Mason's father who acts as a cathartic release for Mason and the tribulations he faces during his ascent into adulthood while Mason's father grows up as well. Richard Linklater's own daughter, Lorelei, gives an incredible performance as Mason's sister, Samantha.
Boyhood is a film that focuses more on the journey than the destination with a freewheeling style of storytelling that will leave you stunned and holding back tears of sorrow and joy. In short, Richard Linklater has created a masterpiece.
There are few films this year that have made me both laugh and cry and Richard Linklater's Boyhood is one of those films. Boyhood focuses on the life of Mason and his family over the course of 12 years, which is how long it took Linklater to film, and charting the ebbs and flows of his life: parental separation, his first love, and his first day of college. During the 12 year journey, Linklater chronicles the major events of the last decade (Iraq, the rise in social media, the 2008 election) with subtlety rather than being a major plot point a la Forrest Gump or an episode of The Wonder Years. Combining the wanderlust style of his previous works (Slacker, Dazed and Confused, and Waking Life), Linklater's two hour and forty-five minute epic cuts against the grain of the generic, bloated, coming-of-age films with a visual style and story that is ambitious as it is original.
An unknown actor from Texas who was 7 when he started the film and 19 when he finished, Ellar Coltrane is amazing as Mason as he gives a genuine and authentic performance. Patricia Arquette gives an incredible performance as Mason's mother as she deals with the hardships of being a single mother and her own journey in providing for her two children. Her performance is reminiscent of Ellen Burstyn's leading role in Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore as she does what she can to find happiness for herself and her family. Ethan Hawke gives his best performance as Mason's father who acts as a cathartic release for Mason and the tribulations he faces during his ascent into adulthood while Mason's father grows up as well. Richard Linklater's own daughter, Lorelei, gives an incredible performance as Mason's sister, Samantha.
Boyhood is a film that focuses more on the journey than the destination with a freewheeling style of storytelling that will leave you stunned and holding back tears of sorrow and joy. In short, Richard Linklater has created a masterpiece.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Robin Williams (1951-2014)
In the past 48 hours, its been hard for me to face the fact that one of the great icons of comedy and cinema has departed from this world. Robin Williams was found dead in his Marin County home on Monday. Since 4pm on Monday afternoon, tributes have been paid on social media networks, late night talk shows, and his stand-up routines have been broadcasted on the radio. The details into Robin's death will be speculated and over-analyzed by the press as is common for anyone famous; hopefully, he will be remembered for his craft and warmth he brought to the world rather than be remembered for his departure.
The constant memory of Robin Williams that's been circling in my head these past two days was my Eighth birthday when my parents took me to see Jumanji. Based on Chis Van Allsberg's children's book, two siblings find a board game which comes to life as they roll the dice and battle with the creatures of the jungle. I remember barreling over in laughs over Williams' bearded presence on the screen and watching in awe as he played a bumbling Errol Flynn fighting crocodiles, running from a heard of rhinos, and acting as a father figure to two lonely children. Since then, I started watching anything he was involved in; from his televised antics on Mork and Mindy to his masterclass performance as a therapist in Good Will Hunting.
I could go on and on over the accolades Robin Williams has received over the years, his personal life, and his generosity with Comic Relief and his USO shows, but the only thing I can say about him was that he quenched our thirst with his presence. Last night, I was watching The Fisher King and during the nude sequence in Central Park, an Au-natural Williams tells Jeff Bridges about the story of the holy grail:
One day a fool wandered into the castle and found the king alone. And being a fool, he was simple minded, he didn't see a king. He only saw a man alone and in pain. And he asked the king, "What ails you friend?" The king replied, "I'm thirsty. I need some water to cool my throat". So the fool took a cup from beside his bed, filled it with water and handed it to the king. As the king began to drink, he realized his wound was healed. He looked in his hands and there was the holy grail, that which he sought all of his life. And he turned to the fool and said with amazement, "How can you find that which my brightest and bravest could not?" And the fool replied, "I don't know. I only knew that you were thirsty."
Robin Williams quenched our thirst and knew we were thirsty for humor, for a sense of warmth, for something to distract us from our problems regardless of how big or small they were. He knew we were thirsty and whenever I see a clip of him doing stand-up or catch a glimpse of him on television, I know who I can rely on to pour another cup.
The constant memory of Robin Williams that's been circling in my head these past two days was my Eighth birthday when my parents took me to see Jumanji. Based on Chis Van Allsberg's children's book, two siblings find a board game which comes to life as they roll the dice and battle with the creatures of the jungle. I remember barreling over in laughs over Williams' bearded presence on the screen and watching in awe as he played a bumbling Errol Flynn fighting crocodiles, running from a heard of rhinos, and acting as a father figure to two lonely children. Since then, I started watching anything he was involved in; from his televised antics on Mork and Mindy to his masterclass performance as a therapist in Good Will Hunting.
I could go on and on over the accolades Robin Williams has received over the years, his personal life, and his generosity with Comic Relief and his USO shows, but the only thing I can say about him was that he quenched our thirst with his presence. Last night, I was watching The Fisher King and during the nude sequence in Central Park, an Au-natural Williams tells Jeff Bridges about the story of the holy grail:
One day a fool wandered into the castle and found the king alone. And being a fool, he was simple minded, he didn't see a king. He only saw a man alone and in pain. And he asked the king, "What ails you friend?" The king replied, "I'm thirsty. I need some water to cool my throat". So the fool took a cup from beside his bed, filled it with water and handed it to the king. As the king began to drink, he realized his wound was healed. He looked in his hands and there was the holy grail, that which he sought all of his life. And he turned to the fool and said with amazement, "How can you find that which my brightest and bravest could not?" And the fool replied, "I don't know. I only knew that you were thirsty."
Robin Williams quenched our thirst and knew we were thirsty for humor, for a sense of warmth, for something to distract us from our problems regardless of how big or small they were. He knew we were thirsty and whenever I see a clip of him doing stand-up or catch a glimpse of him on television, I know who I can rely on to pour another cup.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Only Lovers Left Alive
3 1/2 out of 4 Stars
If you’re a fan of the recent revival of vampire films or a
passionate fan of all things hip and indie, then Only Lovers Left Alive is the film to see. Tilda Swinton and Tom Hiddleston play Adam
and Eve, two blood-thirsty vampires living in a world of zombies (humans). Adam has grown depressed over the recent
century as he lives as a reclusive musician in Detroit while Eve is skipping
the light fandango in Morocco’s clubs along with a fellow bloodsucker, Marlowe
(A sagely John Hurt). As Adam contemplates suicide, Eve flies out to Detroit to
see her estranged husband.
By day, both lovers
sleep. By night, they sip on the finest Type-O blood bought from a surgeon (a
funny, yet underused, Jeffrey Wright), to avoid their old habits of sucking the
life out of any living person. Apart from the blood-drinking, Adam and Eve listen
to jukebox 45s, drive around Detroit touring the abandoned buildings, and
pining for the scientists and great thinkers they once ran in circles with; Eve
believes Adam’s depression came from hobnobbing with that “arrogant ass” Lord
Byron. Their reunion is interrupted by the arrival of Eve’s sister, Eva (Mia
Wasikowska), a freewheeling vampire who flew from L.A. (“zombie city,”
according to Adam) to Adam’s apartment.
The queen of the indie film
scene, Tilda Swinton’s second collaboration with Jim Jarmusch adds to the
seasoned actress’s roster of working with some of the most diverse and
celebrated filmmakers and delivering an ethereal and warm performance as Eve. Tom
Hiddleston is funny and haunting in his portrayal as the cynical Adam. Rather
than going off the deep end and waxing poetic about death as if he were Jim
Morrison, Hiddleston reigns in Adam’s pessimism with Jarmusch’s wit and surreal
observations. Mia Wasikowska’s blithe
spirit and presence in the film brilliantly counteracts with the philosophical
musings of death and the past.
Jim Jarmusch gives the middle finger
to the Twilight series and Vampire Diaries with his cool, sexy, and darkly
funny look at the dead surviving through music, literature, and love. Like his
previous masterpieces like Down By Law, Mystery Train, and Dead Man, Jarmusch focuses on strangers in a strange world as Adam
and Eve wander through the night clubs in Detroit and Tangiers contemplating
what the future holds for themselves and for those around them. Like Scorsese
before him, Jarmusch’s ear for music has helped enhance the cinematic
experience; if you don’t believe me, I defy you to watch Dead Man and not be stunned by Neil Young’s score or Ghost Dog as the Wu-Tang Clan’s music
adds to edginess of the film. In the case of Only Lovers Left Alive, Jarmusch’s personal alt-rock band, Squrl, and
minimalist composer, Jozef Van Wissem, give life to the living dead. Part
vampire tale, part love letter to Detroit, Only
Lovers Left Alive is a cynical, yet optimistic film about love.
Monday, March 24, 2014
Nymphomaniac: Volume One
2 out of 4 Stars
Controversial. Sadistic. Hair-raising. Intense. These are some of the words to describe Lars Von Trier's new film, Nymphomaniac: Volume One. Von Trier's full cut of the movie was so long (four hours) that he had split it into two parts as Tarantino did with Kill Bill. Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) is found lying on the snow-covered streets and is saved by Seligman (Stellan Skarsgard), a fly-fishing intellectual who listens to Joe tell him how she ended up on the streets.
Joe's story is an intense, no holds bar description of her sex life with tales of having her virginity being taken by Jerome, a moped-driving twenty-something (Shia LaBoeuf, with a terrible British accent), and competing over a bag of chocolates with her friend by seeing which one has the most sex on a train. As she reaches adulthood, Joe's sexual conquests grow from promiscuous to compulsive as she sees the destruction of one man's married life as his wife (An unforgettable Uma Thurman) confronts Joe in her apartment. The film concludes with a chilling cliffhanger that will leave you shocked, yet curious, over how Joe ended up in the warm embrace of Seligman.
Lars Von Trier once said that "films should be like a rock in a shoe." Von Trier's films are like rocks and shards of glass in a shoe with no socks on, whether it is the suspenseful and grueling Antichrist
or his audacious musical, Dancer in the Dark. Von Trier's Nymphomaniac is of no exception; he succeeds in shocking you with intense imagery, yet leaves you scratching your head over the age old question about filmmakers of his caliber: is the film made to shock us for the sake of being shocked, or is there an underlying message that is overshadowed by the grueling imagery?
In the sake of Von Trier's Nymphomania, it is a film that tries to look at the ethical nature of sexual compulsion in the same vein as Steve McQueen's Shame or Bertolucci's Last Tango in Paris, yet manages to leave you squirming and turning away from images that make the film anything but sexy. Von Trier's perspective is a heavy handed mix of Freud and Kinsey mixed with a blend of earthy, yet uncomfortable, scenes that are reminiscent of Pasolini. The film is unforgettable, but only from when it is being seen at face value. In terms of the story, it is a feeble attempt of being philosophical as Terrence Malick and overly pretentious as if Von Trier was trying to remake I Am Curious (Yellow).
Controversial. Sadistic. Hair-raising. Intense. These are some of the words to describe Lars Von Trier's new film, Nymphomaniac: Volume One. Von Trier's full cut of the movie was so long (four hours) that he had split it into two parts as Tarantino did with Kill Bill. Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) is found lying on the snow-covered streets and is saved by Seligman (Stellan Skarsgard), a fly-fishing intellectual who listens to Joe tell him how she ended up on the streets.
Joe's story is an intense, no holds bar description of her sex life with tales of having her virginity being taken by Jerome, a moped-driving twenty-something (Shia LaBoeuf, with a terrible British accent), and competing over a bag of chocolates with her friend by seeing which one has the most sex on a train. As she reaches adulthood, Joe's sexual conquests grow from promiscuous to compulsive as she sees the destruction of one man's married life as his wife (An unforgettable Uma Thurman) confronts Joe in her apartment. The film concludes with a chilling cliffhanger that will leave you shocked, yet curious, over how Joe ended up in the warm embrace of Seligman.
Lars Von Trier once said that "films should be like a rock in a shoe." Von Trier's films are like rocks and shards of glass in a shoe with no socks on, whether it is the suspenseful and grueling Antichrist
or his audacious musical, Dancer in the Dark. Von Trier's Nymphomaniac is of no exception; he succeeds in shocking you with intense imagery, yet leaves you scratching your head over the age old question about filmmakers of his caliber: is the film made to shock us for the sake of being shocked, or is there an underlying message that is overshadowed by the grueling imagery?
In the sake of Von Trier's Nymphomania, it is a film that tries to look at the ethical nature of sexual compulsion in the same vein as Steve McQueen's Shame or Bertolucci's Last Tango in Paris, yet manages to leave you squirming and turning away from images that make the film anything but sexy. Von Trier's perspective is a heavy handed mix of Freud and Kinsey mixed with a blend of earthy, yet uncomfortable, scenes that are reminiscent of Pasolini. The film is unforgettable, but only from when it is being seen at face value. In terms of the story, it is a feeble attempt of being philosophical as Terrence Malick and overly pretentious as if Von Trier was trying to remake I Am Curious (Yellow).
Sunday, March 16, 2014
The Grand Budapest Hotel
3 1/2 out of 4 Stars
In his seventh film, The Grand Budapest Hotel, Wes Anderson examines the unconditional need to capture the past with grace and elegance in the face of terror and bewilderment. The result, a delectable and lighthearted journey that secures Anderson's position as one of the great comedic and heartfelt filmmakers in recent memory. His impeccable obsession with detail mixed with the quirkiness of his protagonists is a pleasure to devour with your eyes and ears.
Set in the non-existent European country of Zubrowka, Monsieur Gustave (Ralph Fiennes) is the concierge of the Grand Budapest Hotel; a charming man with a penchant for perfume, poetry, and pleasuring the elderly women that stay at the hotel. While running the hotel, Gustave mentors Zero (Tony Revolori), a beloved lobby boy who is taken under Gustave's heavily-perfumed wing. After one of his flames, Madame D. (Tilda Swinton), dies of a mysterious death, Gustave is named in her will as the owner of her most priceless painting, much to the dismay of her hotheaded son, Dimitri (A hilarious Adrien Brody), and his henchman (A chilling Willem Dafoe). As a result to Gustave's good fortune, murder, adventure, and romance ensue in the tradition of Jean Renoir's The Grand Illusion and Robert Altman's Gosford Park, yet through the kelidoscopic eyes of Wes Anderson.
Charming and funny, Ralph Fiennes gives a stellar performance as the regimented, yet flawed, Gustave. Tony Revolori is unforgettable as the loyal Zero; it would be hard to imagine not seeing Revolori resurface in another Anderson picture, or indeed, in whatever comes his way next. The rest of the cast, which consist of Anderson's regular actors, add to the fun and warmhearted adventure. Based on the writings of Viennese writer, Stefan Zweig, Anderson and Hugo Guinness have crafted a story that fits the mold of Anderson's previous stories about father-son relationships, yet with the intoxicating images of Anna Pinnock's set designs of the hotel and shot with the sharply focused eyes of Anderson's long-time cinematographer, Robert Yeoman.
As repetitious as my praise for The Grand Budapest Hotel is, the only quote I can think up to sum up the experience comes from the immortal lyrics of the Eagles, "You can check out anytime you like, but just can never leave."
In his seventh film, The Grand Budapest Hotel, Wes Anderson examines the unconditional need to capture the past with grace and elegance in the face of terror and bewilderment. The result, a delectable and lighthearted journey that secures Anderson's position as one of the great comedic and heartfelt filmmakers in recent memory. His impeccable obsession with detail mixed with the quirkiness of his protagonists is a pleasure to devour with your eyes and ears.
Set in the non-existent European country of Zubrowka, Monsieur Gustave (Ralph Fiennes) is the concierge of the Grand Budapest Hotel; a charming man with a penchant for perfume, poetry, and pleasuring the elderly women that stay at the hotel. While running the hotel, Gustave mentors Zero (Tony Revolori), a beloved lobby boy who is taken under Gustave's heavily-perfumed wing. After one of his flames, Madame D. (Tilda Swinton), dies of a mysterious death, Gustave is named in her will as the owner of her most priceless painting, much to the dismay of her hotheaded son, Dimitri (A hilarious Adrien Brody), and his henchman (A chilling Willem Dafoe). As a result to Gustave's good fortune, murder, adventure, and romance ensue in the tradition of Jean Renoir's The Grand Illusion and Robert Altman's Gosford Park, yet through the kelidoscopic eyes of Wes Anderson.
Charming and funny, Ralph Fiennes gives a stellar performance as the regimented, yet flawed, Gustave. Tony Revolori is unforgettable as the loyal Zero; it would be hard to imagine not seeing Revolori resurface in another Anderson picture, or indeed, in whatever comes his way next. The rest of the cast, which consist of Anderson's regular actors, add to the fun and warmhearted adventure. Based on the writings of Viennese writer, Stefan Zweig, Anderson and Hugo Guinness have crafted a story that fits the mold of Anderson's previous stories about father-son relationships, yet with the intoxicating images of Anna Pinnock's set designs of the hotel and shot with the sharply focused eyes of Anderson's long-time cinematographer, Robert Yeoman.
As repetitious as my praise for The Grand Budapest Hotel is, the only quote I can think up to sum up the experience comes from the immortal lyrics of the Eagles, "You can check out anytime you like, but just can never leave."
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