Movie Review for Choke

Before starting this review, I need to admit to a few things. First off, my favorite movie of all time is Fight Club. There, I said it; it's out in the open so just breathe that little factoid in for a moment while I try to explain how I intend to critique this flick--which was written by the same author as Fight Club--without sounding like a completely biased, fanboy loser. Secondly, I'm afraid what's worse is that before watching this movie, Choke, I had finished reading the book no more than three days earlier, adding to my repertoire the moniker of "book snob" to the already well-established "movie snob". So drenched with the heightened standards and expectations most mature movie-goers try to dry off before entering the theater, I saw this film in the sort context-warped way I imagine many psychonauts experience while taking LSD. Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad, but you should definitely take into account, while reading this, that I certainly was under the influence of preconceived notions.

Now that we've got that out of the way, let's try to analyse this thing for what it is: a movie. Victor Mancini (Sam Rockwell) is a sex-addict and works as an "historical reenactor" of colonial times. Trying to keep his insane mother (Anjelica Huston) afloat in a sea of batty crones at a nursing home, he grows a strange, asexual attraction for her doctor, Paige Marshall (Kelly Macdonald). Meanwhile, he, along with his compulsive-masturbating friend, Denny (Brad William Henke), go to restaurants to purposely choke himself on giant slabs of flounder or handfuls of Ethiopian food and find someone in the horrified crowd who is self-righteous and Christ-like enough to Heimlich the hell out of him. Out of this, he receives a constant stream of birthday cards, pity letters, and the occasional 100 bucks, a scam worth jotting down those of us whom lack consciences.

I like to think of Choke, and for that matter many of Chuck Palahniuk's stories, as being like a nice, thick soup. While other movies are celephane-wrapped and come in sugar-coated, homogenous, bite-sized peices, Choke is simply a brothy muck that hides its contents and surprises you with something new in every spoonful. Sometimes that's a good thing, sometimes it's a bad thing. In this case, I think it's a mixture of both. While it's refreshing to see a movie that doesn't masturbate to a marketable movie premise for two hours, I sometimes felt as though the movie itself was a little too disjointed and fragmented. It was noticeable how certain peices of it that were cohesive and well organized in the book didn't translate perfectly into the time constraints of a movie. For instance, a particularly significant aspect of the storyarch was a stone structure that Victor's friend, Denny, was building. In the book it was of extreme importance, but in the movie it seemed to be a hastily mentioned afterthought.

One thing this movie is definitely guilty of is being too faithful to the book. I think the movie-makers overcompensated in their valiant attempts to adapt this onto the silver screen. Maybe there was too much pressure to do the book justice, or maybe they wanted to out do the book itself; either way, I wasn't wholly satisfied with the way in which the scenes were strewn together. While many movies suffer from a haphazard, slapdash editing team, it seems that this editing team was hired straight out of an OCD psych-ward. Scene-after-scene, as the so-called "tension" kept mounting, I kept wondering why, of all the chapters and events in the book, it was these that they chose to depict. What's worse is what divergences did exist were not the things left out but rather the things added in to the story. Granted, these additional jaunts were in themselves funny and creative, but contributed absolutely nothing to the story and seemed like trifling tidbits sprinkled on afterwards. I couldn't help but feel like I had just gotten beaten over the head for two hours with a bag full of pointlessness after walking out of the theater.

The acting, cinematography, musical score, all of it was befitting and exactly what I imagined in my mind while reading the book. Sam Rockwell does a flawless portrayal of Victor Mancini; Brad William Hencke does an okay job with Denny, I just didn't like how goofy and loveable we started out as in the movie and how 'holier than thou' he ended it with; I pretty much fell in love with Kelly Macdonald as Paige Marshall, particularly how normal and non-drop-dead-gorgeous she looks; Anjelica Huston was fantasic at playing Ida Mancini, however whether or not she looked the part, I'd be willing to debate. The score was quirky and appropriate. One thing I found irritating with the directing is how in the beginning and end, Victor narrates a great deal, whereas the whole second act is deprived of such commentary. Maybe this is just my book-bias butting it again, but there were tons of clever and even pertinent phrases and aphorisms in the book that I felt could've been utilized to give the muddled scenes some context or structure. Sort of like that other movie. What was it called? Fight--something.

What this really boils down to is whether or not this stands alone as a movie. I'm afraid that this is one question I can't answer. Maybe somewhere down the line I'll rent this movie, after I've long forgotten the underpinnings of the novel and see it in a new light; but until then, this seems to me to be a miss--however, a glancing miss that barely passed its target. It was a movie that dutifully provided all the content of the book without any of the context, which is almost as--if not more--important. Chuck Palahniuk is a rhythm writer; he repeats certain phrases and sayings throughout the book because in the end they all add up to something. I'm afraid this sort of rhythm wasn't properly captured on film this time around. As a result, the whole never equalled the sum of its parts.

Movie Review for Funny Games

Sometimes there comes a movie that doesn't behave as other movies do. Instead of accentuating the standard plots, themes, and events that is expected by most, it simply portrays a sequence of happenings. It just is. Funny Games is one such film.

Funny Games is a verbatim remake of the 1997 Austrian movie of the same name, and tells the tale of a small upper-class family and the two oddball characters they encounter while vacationing at their beautiful and yet eerily isolated summer villa. From there the sadism ensues, what with the sort of sick and twisted, devil-may-care house invasion that rivals even that of Anthony Burgess' A Clockwork Orange in its disturbing depictions.

The gore is surprisingly minimal in this horror flick, with a more acute emphasis on the premise of house guests who won't leave. It begins somewhat slow but immediately picks up as soon as the two adolescent villains make their appearance. From then on it takes you on a pretty vigorous ride which to my irritation is stopped short somewhat awkwardly by excessive indie-experimentation.

I'm not sure what exactly the writers were trying to do but they certainly managed to be far more ballsy than any dimwitted Hollywood joint that panders to its audience like it was constituted of infants, which is something I like. However, these movie-makers go a bit far in their transgressions; they fail to realize the difference between teasingly disregarding the audience's preconceived notions and being downright mean. Making allusions that simply result in red herrings and dishing out exhilarating tension that only leads to anticlimax isn't even the kind of slap in the face Tarantino would dare.

It's rather obvious these guys were trying to imitate Tarantino, utilizing extremely long-lasting camera shots that would make even the most patient of individuals piss their pants in anticipation. I felt like a crack junkie, yearning for the next scene's arrival like it were my next fix. There was no musical score to speak of (aside from off-the-wall heavy metal used in the credits and one of the chase scenes) which certainly added to the minimalist, teeth-grinding tension.

Naomi Watts proved her acting skills here, completely stealing many of the scenes even when wearing nothing but a bloodied, vomit-covered cardigan vest and looking her worst. Meanwhile Tim Roth, respectable in his own right, was somewhat forgettable with his more stoic approach to his role. What scenes Watts didn't take, Michael Pitt was sure to hijack along with the family as he plays the sinister golfer that coordinates the night's heinous, aristocratic delinquency; at times sharing his satisfaction by addressing the audience with an evil wink or rhetorical question.

While it seems that this movie was trying to achieve an unapologetically, unprecedented level of sadism, not only to its protagonists, but to its audience as well, I think it paid a heavy price in doing so. Near the end, all that can be felt is aggravation as it seems that the writers were gleefully tantalizing you the whole time with worse tortures than the characters went through. Next time they should just keep the cruelty behind the fourth wall.

Movie Review for The Dark Knight

Mythologies, legends, and archetypes have been cultivated by every known society since the beginning of human history, serving as the heroes, villains, and dreamscapes for a certain people in their time and place. It could be said that the proverbial Odin or Zeus of our day is the Dark Knight himself, Batman. Likewise, the insidious Loki can be portrayed by the equally insidious Joker. All the while, the stage upon which the satyrs performed is by today's measure film canisters and comic book shelves.

So in order for anyone to properly project these gods of our time onto the silver screen without scuffing their good name, one must dig deeply into society's collective psyche; to excavate for whatever cultural nerve it is that these mythos tickle. Sometimes, however, society moves in a new direction and so too does the stigmata. Where the over-the-top, Gothic aesthetics of Tim Burton and the borderline campy, neon-inundated visuals of Joel Schumacher once twinged that old familiar appeal, we, as a Batman-loving audience, have matured; and a mature Batman movie is what we needed.

2005's Batman Begins delivered with a sucker-punch impact only Chris Nolan could pull off. His mythical directing style and Christian Bale's flawless performance gave way for a new hope, a new found optimism, if you will. We knew all too well that that was but a mere entrée, preceding the oh-so-delicious main course to come. This summer's The Dark Knight was emancipated upon the world like a tidal wave. Powered by a nuclear-reactor of media hype, jizz-my-shorts-anticipation, and the unfortunate and untimely death of Heath Ledger, the crater left by this film is still giving off smoke.

With a runtime of about 152 minutes, this flick reaches some pretty epic proportions. Chris Nolan, along with his brother Jonathon, did what he knows best here and totally geared up his ultra thematic screenwriting; while the previous Batman centered around the concepts of fear and justice, The Dark Knight completely surrounds the ideas of corruption, control, and chaos, and how they are intertwined with one another in a scummy Gotham backdrop.

Visually speaking, the movie is nothing short of stunning; Nolan fully delivers the same beige-tinted, twilight aesthetic he tantalized us with in the last film. The musical score has also been bolstered with a tension-mounting siren that has been interspersed throughout the more captivating scenes to keep your molars in a churning rhythm. Another happy addition to the series is the alterations made in ol' Batty's suit; it has been accommodated to allow for his neck to actually move which was, in past films, a rather bothersome distraction.

Christian Bale's performance was superb as was expected from his last venture as the caped crusader. Unlike Kilmer, Clooney, and Keaton, he manages to keep Bruce Wayne's feet firmly grounded in reality, making him seem rather goal-oriented and entrepreneurial. This contrasts with Batman's past portrayals as a so-what costume-clad fool, prancing about with no real long term foresight. In this, Bruce Wayne is quick to drop the whole Batman charade at the first sign of Gotham not needing him. To him, Batman is just a necessary evil. One thing that irked me with Bale's acting here is his incessant use of a far-flung, Menthol-rasped voice for Batman, which didn't seem as profound in the last movie.

While it's easy for the deaths of actors in Hollywood to incite whirlwinds of too much hype and exaggeration, Heath Ledger offered a performance that climbed above even the highest of expectations, including my own. Ledger seemingly lived out the life of the lazy-eyed, lip-smacking, serial-killer clown, rendering even Jack Nicholson's lively take on the role into a mere impersonation. The movie never elaborates on the Joker's back story, something Hollywood seems all too obsessed with doing these days. I won't go into too much detail so as not to spoil a glorious rendition that must be witnessed first-hand, but I will say that Ledger could have lived to be one-hundred-years-old and this performance still would have outlived him.

Of course, we can't ignore the supporting cast. I certainly didn't miss Katie Holmes as Rachel Dawe; Maggie Gyllenhaal sweeps through the movie as somewhat of a breath fresh air. Aaron Eckhart plays a vivacious Harvey Dent, conjuring up the same politician's smile he did in Thank You for Smoking. Michael Caine returns as the ever-venerable Alfred Pennyworth, dutifully injecting the character with dimension and likability. While Morgan Freeman's Lucius Fox, alongside Alfred, acted as a voice of reason and conscience to Bruce Wayne in Batman Begins, I feel that his overall presence here isn't as necessary and has become more of a filler. Gary Oldman continues his role as James Gordon who is a pivotal character in the story arc despite being somewhat forgettable in Oldman's performance.

In truth, I think there are two major things this movie owes its success to: a plot line that encompasses a modern day epic tale of mythology, reverential to the iconography and symbolism that Batman withholds; and the clear-sighted understanding of what the Batman-audience has grown into over the years, never pandering to us kitschy nostalgia or force-feeding us a dimwitted story. This is certainly no kids movie and I felt myself having to suspend less disbelief than I predicted. It's characters, setting, and events were totally believable and seem particularly reflective of the sort of world we currently live in. While Heath Ledger's performance is the sort of smack in the face we've been waiting for, he by no means "stole" any of the scenes, let alone the movie. Even without him, I feel that this film would have still prospered. In the end, however, this movie is simply a juggernaut, a colossal converging of amazing talents that aimed to produce a truly sublime cinematic experience.

Movie Review for Before The Devil Knows You're Dead

Before the Devil Knows You're Dead is one of those types of movies that you never really pay attention to when it's released in theaters; those types that you only rub a chin at only after it has sneaked its way into your Netflix queue by some curious relative. It's the type of movie that you spend its entire living-room-showing pondering and scratching your head on what to make of it: heads or tails?

Being named after a rather devilish Irish saying, this little diddy tells the tale of two brothers: Andy Hanson (Phillip Seymour Hoffman) and Hank Hansen (Ethan Hawke). Both of them hard up for some much needed cash--Andy because of a vaccation-hungry wife (Marisa Tomei), some embezzlement issues, and a slightly nettlesome heroin addiction, and Hank because of God-knows-what--they decide to rob a mom-n-pop jewelry store. However, this isn't just any joe-schmo, run-of-the-mill mom-n-pop jewelry store; it is actually owned by the brothers' own parents, an opportunity that they deem to be too easy to pass up. Enlisting some shady help from a fellow criminal, Hank attempts to execute the so-called "harmless" heist only to muck it up into a free-for-all catastrophe of horror, guilt, and one dead mom.

Right off the bat, the story begins with a lubricious sex-scene and some exciting crime-induced bloodshed. While it peters off from there, it swells back up occasionally through what seems to be an incessant montage of flashbacks. This sort of non-linear storytelling can often times be relentlessly climactic, but it seems here to be a somewhat contrivance; as if the writers were trying to snare some Pulp Fiction, or Memento flare for their own. Quite honestly, I adored the plot and premise, but found the whole time-traveling device to be redundant and completely unnecessary. Every time the story was getting thicker and juicier, it skidded to a halt only to return to a previous time and from a different character's perspective. I felt myself being sucked out of any hope of immersion each time. Despite this, I traversed the entire two hours holding a keen liking for the script and dialog, suspending whatever time-travel annoyances to the wind. Until the ending, of course. With the same sort of slack-jaw, drop-cliff ending that No Country for Old Men kicked us in the nuts with, it simply stops. It doesn't end; it just stops. In the end, the credits rolled and so did my eyes. Nothing but tails for the story.

While I can only stutter spastic statements of appraisal for the past works of Sydney Lumet (12 Angry Men, Serpico, Dog Day Afternoon), I find myself somewhat irritated by his cinematography in this flick. He shot it with high definition video, which while eye-popping and even mesmerizing at times, didn't bolster the movie into the cohesive package I would have liked to have seen. Instead, I couldn't help but feel like I was watching a prolonged episode of some high-budget, primetime TV show. The musical score didn't sit well with me either; it melodied when it shouldn't have, kept silent when it wasn't supposed to, and didn't completely fit the atmosphere of the movie. All in all, the AV department gets a tails.

Big time heads, however, goes to the acting. Phillip Seymour Hoffman does the same sorts of things that he tends to do here: give an amazing performance. He certainly showed his acting diversity and proved to me that he by no means should ever be typecast out of villainous roles. Ethan Hawke offered up a dutiful performance, though I would have liked to have seen more spastic subservience to his brother and a little more face-clawing guilt for his mother. Marissa Tomei was a joy to see, though it was mostly because the times she did show up, it was without clothes. Besides that, her acting was adequate, however, when contrasted with Hoffman's performance, she seemed to be little more than a presence.

All in all, I feel that the acting and first 99% of the story couldn't save this flick. After rolling around its edge a couple of times, this coin just flopped over, heads first.