The Road by Cormac McCarthy takes the reader on a journey of profound horror. The setting is a post-apocalyptic United States of America. McCarthy imagines a world where every living thing has been destroyed, save for a few resilient humans. There is nothing to eat, no plants to harvest, no animals to hunt. Not even an insect to swat.
The nature of the apocalyptic event is never revealed. Was it environmental? An unstoppable virus? A nuclear firestorm? A meteor from the heavens? Did humans bring this catastrophe upon themselves? The reader doesn’t know and never does find out. This adds to the desolation, the hopeless dread that this story continuously invokes.
The novel tells the story of a father and son traveling down a desolate highway, heading west in an attempt to escape the winter weather that is inexorably coming. The two main characters remain unnamed throughout. Names are irrelevant, McCarthy seems to be saying, their struggle to remain alive is robbing them of their humanity.
Civilization has collapsed. Technology has vanished. Life has been reduced to a search for food. All that is left are the caches of canned and preserved goods that have survived the catastrophe, whatever it was. These supplies are dwindling. The supermarkets were trashed long ago, virtually every home and building emptied of edible material. Some of the remaining humans have banded together in desperation. And some of these gangs have resorted to eating the flesh of the only animal remaining on the planet.
The horrors mount. At one point, they fall upon a house with a room that’s locked and barred. What treasures are hidden inside? The man thinks it must be food. It has to be food. The boy is deathly afraid. The man breaks down the door with an axe, only to find a room full of emaciated people, chained amidst their own filth, kept like a small, precious herd of cattle.
Another time, they sense another presence and hide in the woods, watching a small troupe of men pass by, with a pregnant girl in tow. All other humans are potential dangers. Some days later, they happen by an old campfire, a tiny skull adrift in the ashes.
The father and son live (if you can call it that) in constant fear. They have only a small pistol to protect themselves, and a limited number of bullets. The boy is the man’s conscience, keeping him from descending into the depths that others have. Hope remains somehow, despite the utter absence of any semblance of a logical hope that mankind will survive. This hope is irrational, but still it remains.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Big Love - Year 1, Episodes 1 -2
Watching Big Love can be an exhausting experience. I feel for Bill Henrickson (Bill Paxton) and his trials. I couldn’t imagine being in his shoes. Or in and out of his three marital beds. Big Love is a HBO series that portrays the saga of a polygamous family living in Mormon-dominated Utah. It’s just your regular, normal suburban household, except that it consists of three side-by-side houses, all sharing one backyard.
Three houses means three wives - boss wife Barb, ever-pouting Nicki, and bouncy, busty Margie - and a bushel of kids. Bill somehow finds time to run a Home Depot type store in order to afford this brood. And in the pilot episode, amidst all the introductions to the myriad characters and inter-relationships, Bill discovers the magic pill that will help him keep up with the wives. Yes, Bill, doing a google search for Viagra will elicit a few hits. A few billion, I’m sure. And for once, the “I’m Feeling Lucky” button will have extra resonance.
As one might imagine, this series is dominated by sex. All the wives are very good-looking, and not as reserved as good Mormons are assumed to be. The wives bicker with jealous fervor. Each one has a scheduled day (and night) with Bill - though they manage to find ways to cheat (if that’s the right word) the system and spend some extra quality romp time. Barb’s memorable motto is “Oral is Moral”. Margie has a tendency to be vocally enthusiastic and doesn’t remember to close her bedroom window - I guess Bill can’t find time to install central air for the moment. And Nicki just smolders seductively and proceeds to max out Bill’s credit cards at the first opportunity.
Of course, if we haven’t got the point by now, enter Bill’s derelict father (played by a disheveled Bruce Dern). As he reminds his son, when one lives in a polygamous community, the competition to wed the young girls is intense. Bill apparently got kicked out of the ‘compound’ when he reached puberty. And then there’s one of the father-in-laws, the mysterious Roman, who helped fund Bill’s business ventures and is intent on collecting his ten-percent tithe forever more. Roman’s new fourteen year-old bride is paraded in a creepy scene that will have the squeamish reaching for the remote.
The first two episodes leave the viewer hanging. Who is poisoning Bill’s father? Is it Bill’s mother? Or is it Roman, via the sip bottle of homemade brew that the camera looks at suspiciously, but no one ever comments on?
And more importantly, will Bill be able to renew his Viagra prescription in time?
Three houses means three wives - boss wife Barb, ever-pouting Nicki, and bouncy, busty Margie - and a bushel of kids. Bill somehow finds time to run a Home Depot type store in order to afford this brood. And in the pilot episode, amidst all the introductions to the myriad characters and inter-relationships, Bill discovers the magic pill that will help him keep up with the wives. Yes, Bill, doing a google search for Viagra will elicit a few hits. A few billion, I’m sure. And for once, the “I’m Feeling Lucky” button will have extra resonance.
As one might imagine, this series is dominated by sex. All the wives are very good-looking, and not as reserved as good Mormons are assumed to be. The wives bicker with jealous fervor. Each one has a scheduled day (and night) with Bill - though they manage to find ways to cheat (if that’s the right word) the system and spend some extra quality romp time. Barb’s memorable motto is “Oral is Moral”. Margie has a tendency to be vocally enthusiastic and doesn’t remember to close her bedroom window - I guess Bill can’t find time to install central air for the moment. And Nicki just smolders seductively and proceeds to max out Bill’s credit cards at the first opportunity.
Of course, if we haven’t got the point by now, enter Bill’s derelict father (played by a disheveled Bruce Dern). As he reminds his son, when one lives in a polygamous community, the competition to wed the young girls is intense. Bill apparently got kicked out of the ‘compound’ when he reached puberty. And then there’s one of the father-in-laws, the mysterious Roman, who helped fund Bill’s business ventures and is intent on collecting his ten-percent tithe forever more. Roman’s new fourteen year-old bride is paraded in a creepy scene that will have the squeamish reaching for the remote.
The first two episodes leave the viewer hanging. Who is poisoning Bill’s father? Is it Bill’s mother? Or is it Roman, via the sip bottle of homemade brew that the camera looks at suspiciously, but no one ever comments on?
And more importantly, will Bill be able to renew his Viagra prescription in time?
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Next
Next is an apt title for this film. As in next please. The movie left me dumbfounded. And then it ended - it’s not every movie that could upstage a nuclear explosion with a Dallas-like Bobby-out-of-the-shower-type moment. You mean I wasted ninety minutes of my life watching a film that couldn’t even decide what it was about. What happened? Nothing happened? Nicolas Cage looked two minutes into the future, envisioned all the possible scenarios in his obviously-computer like brain, and this story was the best he could do?
It’s unfortunate that the film is supposedly based on a Phillip K. Dick short story. I’m sure that the original story, The Golden Man, was more coherent and entertaining. It had to be.
Nicolas Cage plays a Las Vegas magician Chris Johnson aka Frank Cadillac who has a terribly unentertaining mentalist act. The highlight of his act was a prediction that a necklace would fall off a woman’s neck into her drink. Woohoo! You have to wonder why he bothered, since it seems he makes all his money at the blackjack table. Mr. Johnson helpfully tells the audience that the key is to stay under the radar, not to win too much at one time. He then proceeds to do exactly that! Switch to the control room where the head of casino security is keeping an eye on the erstwhile magician via a video feed. They’re talking about him - so Chris stares woefully up at the hidden camera. Hey, I thought his talent was to see the future - but it seems he also has some latent telepathic abilities, not to mention a nose for ferreting out surveillance cameras.
Cue the FBI, in the person of a hyper-aggressive and annoying agent Ferris played by Julianne Moore. She’s after him to help some French-speaking terrorists from deploying a nuclear bomb somewhere in the vicinity. I suppose Jack Bauer is busy elsewhere, and this is the best idea the FBI’s got at the moment. It’s never explained why or how the FBI heard of Johnson - perhaps an agent named Mulder tipped them off.
But the bad guys are also after the magician - presumably there’s a leak in the FBI, a very bad leak, since it’s clear they’ve no idea why he’s important. Then again, there’s no clear reason why the terrorists are planting a bomb, or even where they’re from. Perhaps they’re FLQ refugees from the 70's. Or they’re from France, pissed off about the Freedom Fries thing. Or maybe it’s all the damn American tourists.
Of course, as Johnson explains more than once, he can’t see any future, just his. So cue the beautiful damsel in distress. This also gives the writers’ an excuse to throw in a miniaturized and compressed version of a Groundhog Day type seduction. But Nicolas Cage is no Bill Murray. And Jessica Biel is definitely no Andie MacDowell. For some unexplained (again) reason - no doubt due to destiny and love and all that - the magician can see farther into the future when it comes to this woman.
So conveniently, the villains kidnap her. Johnson perfects his dodging skills in saving her life. The viewer is surprised just how much can be done in two minute. All the possibilities. I can barely remember one time line, even two minutes at a time. He juggles time like a hyperactive stockbroker on meth.
Next please!
It’s unfortunate that the film is supposedly based on a Phillip K. Dick short story. I’m sure that the original story, The Golden Man, was more coherent and entertaining. It had to be.
Nicolas Cage plays a Las Vegas magician Chris Johnson aka Frank Cadillac who has a terribly unentertaining mentalist act. The highlight of his act was a prediction that a necklace would fall off a woman’s neck into her drink. Woohoo! You have to wonder why he bothered, since it seems he makes all his money at the blackjack table. Mr. Johnson helpfully tells the audience that the key is to stay under the radar, not to win too much at one time. He then proceeds to do exactly that! Switch to the control room where the head of casino security is keeping an eye on the erstwhile magician via a video feed. They’re talking about him - so Chris stares woefully up at the hidden camera. Hey, I thought his talent was to see the future - but it seems he also has some latent telepathic abilities, not to mention a nose for ferreting out surveillance cameras.
Cue the FBI, in the person of a hyper-aggressive and annoying agent Ferris played by Julianne Moore. She’s after him to help some French-speaking terrorists from deploying a nuclear bomb somewhere in the vicinity. I suppose Jack Bauer is busy elsewhere, and this is the best idea the FBI’s got at the moment. It’s never explained why or how the FBI heard of Johnson - perhaps an agent named Mulder tipped them off.
But the bad guys are also after the magician - presumably there’s a leak in the FBI, a very bad leak, since it’s clear they’ve no idea why he’s important. Then again, there’s no clear reason why the terrorists are planting a bomb, or even where they’re from. Perhaps they’re FLQ refugees from the 70's. Or they’re from France, pissed off about the Freedom Fries thing. Or maybe it’s all the damn American tourists.
Of course, as Johnson explains more than once, he can’t see any future, just his. So cue the beautiful damsel in distress. This also gives the writers’ an excuse to throw in a miniaturized and compressed version of a Groundhog Day type seduction. But Nicolas Cage is no Bill Murray. And Jessica Biel is definitely no Andie MacDowell. For some unexplained (again) reason - no doubt due to destiny and love and all that - the magician can see farther into the future when it comes to this woman.
So conveniently, the villains kidnap her. Johnson perfects his dodging skills in saving her life. The viewer is surprised just how much can be done in two minute. All the possibilities. I can barely remember one time line, even two minutes at a time. He juggles time like a hyperactive stockbroker on meth.
Next please!
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Fracture
Fracture is a film that entertains despite its flaws. Ordinarily, the cliched nature of its characters would have grated. But the quality of the acting saves the day. Anthony Hopkins plays the too-smart killer, Ted Crawford, with the gusto of a practiced egotist, while Ryan Gosling steals the show with his performance of the ambitious, over-achieving prosecutor Willy Beachum who, despite all odds, is ruled by an infatuation with Lady Justice.
The young lawyer decides to give up the perfect job and the perfect girlfriend in order to pursue the murderer beyond any reasonable hope of success. Crawford does his best to make the confrontation personal, a duel of titular intellects, a fight that he feels sure to win given that he’s a amoral genius engineer with a really sexy sports car. Still, it is difficult to believe Beachum would abandon his life-long pursuit of the American ideal of wealth and privilege. After all, he seemed quite willing to sleep with his future boss, which should have been the list of no-nos in his ethics course. Perhaps he missed that class hobnobbing with the other future corporate lawyers.
The other all-too-convenient plot point rests upon the contrivance that Crawford’s wife is having an affair with the local police’s hostage negotiator. Okay, he obviously designed his plan around that fact - it all hinged on the belief that this cop would be called in - and that was a rather large leap of faith for a meticulous killer to take.
The young lawyer decides to give up the perfect job and the perfect girlfriend in order to pursue the murderer beyond any reasonable hope of success. Crawford does his best to make the confrontation personal, a duel of titular intellects, a fight that he feels sure to win given that he’s a amoral genius engineer with a really sexy sports car. Still, it is difficult to believe Beachum would abandon his life-long pursuit of the American ideal of wealth and privilege. After all, he seemed quite willing to sleep with his future boss, which should have been the list of no-nos in his ethics course. Perhaps he missed that class hobnobbing with the other future corporate lawyers.
The other all-too-convenient plot point rests upon the contrivance that Crawford’s wife is having an affair with the local police’s hostage negotiator. Okay, he obviously designed his plan around that fact - it all hinged on the belief that this cop would be called in - and that was a rather large leap of faith for a meticulous killer to take.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Year of the Dog
‘Year of the Dog’ is a sad movie. And not sad in a good way, if there is such a thing. No, unfortunately, it’s sad in a pathetic way. It’s a depressing film, especially since I believe it was meant to be funny. But someone should tell the screenwriter that quirky does not always equal funny. In this case, quirky manages to equate to unreal. Plastic. Totally unbelievable. In other words, fake.
Molly Shannon (formerly of Saturday Night Live fame) stumbles through the entire movie with a silly grin plastered on her face. It’s almost as if she’s been kidnapped, lobotomized and forced to live in a world that’s slightly off-kilter. And if she stops smiling, if she shows some awareness that things aren’t right, she’ll be killed. Perhaps she’ll be killed and processed into nuggets like the chickens she’s so concerned about.
I suppose I’m confusing this movie with another ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’ remake - except we get Molly Shannon instead of Nicole Kidman and the zombies are vegan. It’s just as frightening, except it’s not meant to be a scary film.
There’s so much wrong, it’s hard to catalogue. There’s the neighbour who’s conveniently hunting-obsessed. The egoistical yet strangely insecure boss with no sense of empathy. The co-worker who talks about nothing but her quest for marriage. The brother’s family that personifies the crassness of suburbia. The SPCA worker who’s been so badly damaged by a cult-ridden childhood, he chooses celibacy over any type of relationship.
There’s no one to like, nobody to identify with. All the characters are one-dimensional prototypes of reality. I kept waiting for the lead character to come to some realisation. But she just falls deeper and deeper into the morass of misplaced emotion. She gets drunk and gives her sister-in-law’s fur coats a soaking bath. She has a complete breakdown and tries to stab her neighbour.
“I just wanted him to feel what it’s like to be hunted.”
That’s the huge insight of the movie. One would be better off going for a walk, with or without a dog.
Molly Shannon (formerly of Saturday Night Live fame) stumbles through the entire movie with a silly grin plastered on her face. It’s almost as if she’s been kidnapped, lobotomized and forced to live in a world that’s slightly off-kilter. And if she stops smiling, if she shows some awareness that things aren’t right, she’ll be killed. Perhaps she’ll be killed and processed into nuggets like the chickens she’s so concerned about.
I suppose I’m confusing this movie with another ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’ remake - except we get Molly Shannon instead of Nicole Kidman and the zombies are vegan. It’s just as frightening, except it’s not meant to be a scary film.
There’s so much wrong, it’s hard to catalogue. There’s the neighbour who’s conveniently hunting-obsessed. The egoistical yet strangely insecure boss with no sense of empathy. The co-worker who talks about nothing but her quest for marriage. The brother’s family that personifies the crassness of suburbia. The SPCA worker who’s been so badly damaged by a cult-ridden childhood, he chooses celibacy over any type of relationship.
There’s no one to like, nobody to identify with. All the characters are one-dimensional prototypes of reality. I kept waiting for the lead character to come to some realisation. But she just falls deeper and deeper into the morass of misplaced emotion. She gets drunk and gives her sister-in-law’s fur coats a soaking bath. She has a complete breakdown and tries to stab her neighbour.
“I just wanted him to feel what it’s like to be hunted.”
That’s the huge insight of the movie. One would be better off going for a walk, with or without a dog.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Feast of Love
We went looking for a comedy, but ended up at a screening of a tear-jerker, ‘Feast of Love’. The movie is centered around Greg Kinnear’s character Bradley Thomas as he stumbles through a couple of heartbreaks on his way to true love. The sad-faced Bradley is saddled with a couple of the cliches of modern romantic comedy - his first wife dumps him for her lesbian lover, while the second, a blonde bombshell, treats the marriage as a pit stop on her way to true love with someone else’s husband. The fact that he eventually finds his soul mate in the hospital emergency ward, a beautiful doctor with a sexy accent who sews up his self-inflicted pinkie wound of love, is just the last hard-to-believe scene in his three-act play.
The moral focus of the story is supplied by the supernaturally-wise Morgan Freeman, whose character can spot a love affair blooming before the participants themselves realize it. His character, along with his wife played by Jane Alexander, are grieving over the recent loss of their son. The two actors portray this struggle with heartfelt dignity, even as the storyline drifts into melodrama and Morgan Freeman is allowed to show off his deft boxing skills.
The third couple highlighted in the film is young and beautiful, featuring a guy saddled with a junkie past and an one-dimensional, violent, alcoholic father, and a girl with no history to speak of (at least as far as the script was concerned). The message here seems to be that true love requires a blind eye to misfortune, even if it needed a convenient trip to a fortune-teller to deliver it.
Unfortunately, it is these devices of the obvious - the silly fortune-teller - the evil, stupid father - the plethora of gratuitous female nudity - that ultimately undermine the theme of love that this film attempts to celebrate. A Feast of Love does not reach the sumptuous heights it is clearly aiming for. Rather, it would seem more at home in the fast-food-courts that inhabit the same malls as the cineplex’s that are showing this film.
The moral focus of the story is supplied by the supernaturally-wise Morgan Freeman, whose character can spot a love affair blooming before the participants themselves realize it. His character, along with his wife played by Jane Alexander, are grieving over the recent loss of their son. The two actors portray this struggle with heartfelt dignity, even as the storyline drifts into melodrama and Morgan Freeman is allowed to show off his deft boxing skills.
The third couple highlighted in the film is young and beautiful, featuring a guy saddled with a junkie past and an one-dimensional, violent, alcoholic father, and a girl with no history to speak of (at least as far as the script was concerned). The message here seems to be that true love requires a blind eye to misfortune, even if it needed a convenient trip to a fortune-teller to deliver it.
Unfortunately, it is these devices of the obvious - the silly fortune-teller - the evil, stupid father - the plethora of gratuitous female nudity - that ultimately undermine the theme of love that this film attempts to celebrate. A Feast of Love does not reach the sumptuous heights it is clearly aiming for. Rather, it would seem more at home in the fast-food-courts that inhabit the same malls as the cineplex’s that are showing this film.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Turning Angel by Greg Iles
Turning Angel by Greg Iles
I don’t often pick up a paperback from the bestseller list, and this novel has reminded me why. ‘Turning Angel’ represents the worst in fiction, full of stereotyped caricatures, sensationalistic sex scenes, cartoon violence and an outlandish, nonsensical plot. The protagonist-narrator is an incredibly-smart, civic-minded, single-parent, ex-lawyer, best-selling author. He doesn’t quite has a big S tattooed on his undershirt, but close. Even worse, the narrator’s best friend is a jaw-dropping-handsome, athletic super-specimen. Oh, and he’s a doctor too.
Of course, the doctor has a secret. A nineteen, year-old mistress who’s still in high school but just been accepted at Harvard, who also has a nymphomaniac’s penchant for gravity-defying sex positions. In fact, a large portion of the novel’s dribbling prose becomes a rambling justification for a middle-aged doctor taking on a teenage girlfriend. The narrator himself barely fends off his young daughter’s amorous-minded babysitter. What a standup guy!
The plot is prototypically formulaic. The girlfriend is raped and murdered, then dumped in the river. The doctor is the obvious suspect. The narrator is a little torn, yet steadfastly loyal to his philandering friend.
The author throws in a few other suspects, drug dealers, both Black and Asian. There is some apologetic mumbling about the standard American prejudice against its minorities, but the writing panders to the stereotypes nonetheless. The actual murderer is exported from overseas, a victim of Serbian war crimes, a sop to the conscience-stricken reader.
The novel also includes a rant or three against a drug-addicted, rave-happy, sexually-promiscuous teenage generation. This is despite the fact that he portrays his own generation in virtually the same light.
I don’t often pick up a paperback from the bestseller list, and this novel has reminded me why. ‘Turning Angel’ represents the worst in fiction, full of stereotyped caricatures, sensationalistic sex scenes, cartoon violence and an outlandish, nonsensical plot. The protagonist-narrator is an incredibly-smart, civic-minded, single-parent, ex-lawyer, best-selling author. He doesn’t quite has a big S tattooed on his undershirt, but close. Even worse, the narrator’s best friend is a jaw-dropping-handsome, athletic super-specimen. Oh, and he’s a doctor too.
Of course, the doctor has a secret. A nineteen, year-old mistress who’s still in high school but just been accepted at Harvard, who also has a nymphomaniac’s penchant for gravity-defying sex positions. In fact, a large portion of the novel’s dribbling prose becomes a rambling justification for a middle-aged doctor taking on a teenage girlfriend. The narrator himself barely fends off his young daughter’s amorous-minded babysitter. What a standup guy!
The plot is prototypically formulaic. The girlfriend is raped and murdered, then dumped in the river. The doctor is the obvious suspect. The narrator is a little torn, yet steadfastly loyal to his philandering friend.
The author throws in a few other suspects, drug dealers, both Black and Asian. There is some apologetic mumbling about the standard American prejudice against its minorities, but the writing panders to the stereotypes nonetheless. The actual murderer is exported from overseas, a victim of Serbian war crimes, a sop to the conscience-stricken reader.
The novel also includes a rant or three against a drug-addicted, rave-happy, sexually-promiscuous teenage generation. This is despite the fact that he portrays his own generation in virtually the same light.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Premonition
I wish I’d had a Premonition not to rent this film. Actually, it’s not that bad - kind of like eating rice cakes - no taste and not particularly filling either.
The movie opens with Sandra Bullock (who appears to have a slight case of shrinking nose syndrome a la Michael Jackson - watch that, Sandra!) acting out the role of suburban house-wife Linda. She schleps her two perfectly beautiful daughters to school in the requisite minivan, then goes home to her boring routine. Linda doesn’t quite have a Stepford daze going on, but what with the slightly ominous music playing in the background and the way she snaps her dustcloth, we know something very bad is going to happen.
A cop appears at her front door and the film starts its rapid, downward slide out of credibility. Without even taking a step inside, the policeman breaks the news. Her husband is dead in a car accident. He conveniently mumbles something about the location of the crash and that’s it. No need to go identify the body. No instructions of what to do next. No, he’s gone, leaving a stunned Linda at the door. However, he does leave her a business card - just in case she thinks of a question...
The rest of this day proceeds in a blur. Linda has tell her two children that their father is dead. Her mother appears out of nowhere, then goes to bed. Linda falls asleep on the couch, clutching a photo of dead hubby Jim.
She wakes up in her bed and after a brief creep around the house, finds hubby alive and well and eating his Cheerios. Jim looks up to see her incredulous gaze. “Are you okay?” he asks, which is pretty much his line throughout. He owns that line. From then on, Linda is sent on a roller coaster ride of unexplained time travel, waking up on alternate days before or after the death. If it’s Tuesday, your husband must be dead. Or not. It gets so confusing at some point, she sketches out a calendar of her week just so the audience can keep track along with her.
On the next day after, Linda’s older daughter is suddenly made up with a bunch of creepy Frankenstein-like stitches all over her face. We find out later why, and realize that according to the time line, she should’ve had these stitches in the first scenes of the day after... Not to mention that I would have sued the doctor who stitched the kid up like that.
Then there’s the creepy psychiatrist who makes a house call to have her committed, dragging her kicking and screaming out of the house, then leaving her straight-jacketed on a waiting room bench. He’s the same guy who later (or earlier, depending on your frame of reference) prescribes Lithium for our confused housewife, without ordering any sort of medical test. Maybe she has a brain tumour, ever think of that?
The scriptwriters don’t bother with a rational explanation for all the time-travelling. Instead, a rather cloying priest gets to deliver the news that it’s all Linda’s fault for having a lapse in faith. Apparently, if you lose faith in the good stuff, all sorts of evil can intrude and take over your sense of time and screw up your mind. She needs to fight for what she wants. “But what do I want?” Linda asks. For the movie to end perhaps.
The final message seems to be that one can’t change what’s meant to be, even if you try really hard. But hubby does get one last romp in the sack with his wife and triples his life insurance. What a nice guy! The future was changed, but not really. Go back to sleep, Sandra, maybe you’ll wake up in a better role.
The movie opens with Sandra Bullock (who appears to have a slight case of shrinking nose syndrome a la Michael Jackson - watch that, Sandra!) acting out the role of suburban house-wife Linda. She schleps her two perfectly beautiful daughters to school in the requisite minivan, then goes home to her boring routine. Linda doesn’t quite have a Stepford daze going on, but what with the slightly ominous music playing in the background and the way she snaps her dustcloth, we know something very bad is going to happen.
A cop appears at her front door and the film starts its rapid, downward slide out of credibility. Without even taking a step inside, the policeman breaks the news. Her husband is dead in a car accident. He conveniently mumbles something about the location of the crash and that’s it. No need to go identify the body. No instructions of what to do next. No, he’s gone, leaving a stunned Linda at the door. However, he does leave her a business card - just in case she thinks of a question...
The rest of this day proceeds in a blur. Linda has tell her two children that their father is dead. Her mother appears out of nowhere, then goes to bed. Linda falls asleep on the couch, clutching a photo of dead hubby Jim.
She wakes up in her bed and after a brief creep around the house, finds hubby alive and well and eating his Cheerios. Jim looks up to see her incredulous gaze. “Are you okay?” he asks, which is pretty much his line throughout. He owns that line. From then on, Linda is sent on a roller coaster ride of unexplained time travel, waking up on alternate days before or after the death. If it’s Tuesday, your husband must be dead. Or not. It gets so confusing at some point, she sketches out a calendar of her week just so the audience can keep track along with her.
On the next day after, Linda’s older daughter is suddenly made up with a bunch of creepy Frankenstein-like stitches all over her face. We find out later why, and realize that according to the time line, she should’ve had these stitches in the first scenes of the day after... Not to mention that I would have sued the doctor who stitched the kid up like that.
Then there’s the creepy psychiatrist who makes a house call to have her committed, dragging her kicking and screaming out of the house, then leaving her straight-jacketed on a waiting room bench. He’s the same guy who later (or earlier, depending on your frame of reference) prescribes Lithium for our confused housewife, without ordering any sort of medical test. Maybe she has a brain tumour, ever think of that?
The scriptwriters don’t bother with a rational explanation for all the time-travelling. Instead, a rather cloying priest gets to deliver the news that it’s all Linda’s fault for having a lapse in faith. Apparently, if you lose faith in the good stuff, all sorts of evil can intrude and take over your sense of time and screw up your mind. She needs to fight for what she wants. “But what do I want?” Linda asks. For the movie to end perhaps.
The final message seems to be that one can’t change what’s meant to be, even if you try really hard. But hubby does get one last romp in the sack with his wife and triples his life insurance. What a nice guy! The future was changed, but not really. Go back to sleep, Sandra, maybe you’ll wake up in a better role.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
What more is there to say about the novel ‘Life of Pi’ by Yann Martel. The book was a surprise winner of the prestigious Man Booker prize in 2003, which engendered much publicity and great sales for the previously obscure author. This history is notable, of course, but my memory of reading this novel is much more personal.
I wanted to fling the paperback across the room after reading the deconstructed ‘alternate’ ending. This emotional reaction, I must admit, was entirely due to Mr. Martel’s skill in crafting a story that sucked me in despite its fantastical nature.
The author set the stage carefully, beginning in a fictional preface to the novel. The narrator, a young writer who seems to be in quite a similar situation to the author himself, has been struggling to write a novel. He is living frugally in India, trying to construct a story set elsewhere. He becomes discouraged with his efforts. In a stroke of desperate depression that will ring a bell with any would-be writer, the narrator mails his unpublished manuscript to a fictional address in oblivion - without a return address.
And from this act of destruction come the seeds of hope - the narrator has opened himself up to the world, to new experience, and inspiration comes in the guise of Pi Patel and his incredible story of survival.
Martel uses a variety of techniques to render the unbelievable scenario he creates into a more acceptable form. Its absurd designation of names, for example, contributes to the gentle sense of humour that pervades the novel. Pi Patel is named after the French word for pool, piscine, by his father’s misplaced tribute to a famous swimmer. And the Bengal Tiger that is to be the antagonist to Pi’s protagonist is labeled with unlikely name of Richard Parker.
I was mildly bemused by the narrator’s claim in the novel’s introductory preface that this story of Pi Patel would convince the reader of the existence of god. This theme of religion continues in the first part of the story as we get to know Pi and his curious openness to the three main faiths of the world: Christianity, Hinduism and Islam.
The theme of god and religion returns with a vengeance at the end of the novel. By then, the reader has vicariously lived through the tale of Pi Patel and Richard Parker’s tale of survival, the two of them lost at sea on a small lifeboat, a boy and a 500 pound tiger with nothing else to eat. The story grows increasingly fantastical with each passing chapter. Until the end arrives. The two main characters have survived their journey - they’re back on land, back in the world of reality.
Martel then rips the veil of incredulity away from the tale, revealing the underlying, horrifying truth.
The reader is given a choice. Accept the truth and what it reveals about the nature of man, of the quest for survival, about how our world and civilization came to be, of our uneasy relationship with nature and our fellow humans. Or the reader can take the plunge back into a world of faith - of believing a sugar-coated fairy tale that assaults common sense. Because it is perhaps easier to believe in something greater than oneself.
I prefer a belief in my own perceptions.
I wanted to fling the paperback across the room after reading the deconstructed ‘alternate’ ending. This emotional reaction, I must admit, was entirely due to Mr. Martel’s skill in crafting a story that sucked me in despite its fantastical nature.
The author set the stage carefully, beginning in a fictional preface to the novel. The narrator, a young writer who seems to be in quite a similar situation to the author himself, has been struggling to write a novel. He is living frugally in India, trying to construct a story set elsewhere. He becomes discouraged with his efforts. In a stroke of desperate depression that will ring a bell with any would-be writer, the narrator mails his unpublished manuscript to a fictional address in oblivion - without a return address.
And from this act of destruction come the seeds of hope - the narrator has opened himself up to the world, to new experience, and inspiration comes in the guise of Pi Patel and his incredible story of survival.
Martel uses a variety of techniques to render the unbelievable scenario he creates into a more acceptable form. Its absurd designation of names, for example, contributes to the gentle sense of humour that pervades the novel. Pi Patel is named after the French word for pool, piscine, by his father’s misplaced tribute to a famous swimmer. And the Bengal Tiger that is to be the antagonist to Pi’s protagonist is labeled with unlikely name of Richard Parker.
I was mildly bemused by the narrator’s claim in the novel’s introductory preface that this story of Pi Patel would convince the reader of the existence of god. This theme of religion continues in the first part of the story as we get to know Pi and his curious openness to the three main faiths of the world: Christianity, Hinduism and Islam.
The theme of god and religion returns with a vengeance at the end of the novel. By then, the reader has vicariously lived through the tale of Pi Patel and Richard Parker’s tale of survival, the two of them lost at sea on a small lifeboat, a boy and a 500 pound tiger with nothing else to eat. The story grows increasingly fantastical with each passing chapter. Until the end arrives. The two main characters have survived their journey - they’re back on land, back in the world of reality.
Martel then rips the veil of incredulity away from the tale, revealing the underlying, horrifying truth.
The reader is given a choice. Accept the truth and what it reveals about the nature of man, of the quest for survival, about how our world and civilization came to be, of our uneasy relationship with nature and our fellow humans. Or the reader can take the plunge back into a world of faith - of believing a sugar-coated fairy tale that assaults common sense. Because it is perhaps easier to believe in something greater than oneself.
I prefer a belief in my own perceptions.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
‘Away from Her’ by Alice Munro
‘Away from Her’ is a story written by Canadian short-story diva Alice Munro, originally published under the title, ‘The Bear Came Over the Mountain”.
The story has been repackaged into a ‘new’ paperback collection of Munro stories, in order to capitalize on the release of the film based on the story. It also comes with a gushingly earnest foreword written by Sarah Polley, the actress who has directed the movie.
Polley’s notes are not just marketing-speak. She seems truly filled with passion about the Munro story she read as a passenger flying out of an Icelandic film shoot. Polley tells a meandering tale of her own quest for love and a meaningful relationship, and makes the claim that the story helped her achieve a better understanding of the difference between enduring love and passion. Polley also writes that she immediately saw fellow actor Julie Christie playing the role of Fiona, the main female character of the story. This is convenient, of course, since Polley had just been acting in a film with Christie. And there’s also the coincidence of Fiona’s Icelandic heritage, which appeared almost spiritually coincidental to Polley.
One wonders if Alice Munro will one day be inspired to write an insightful look at the folly of a youthful actress attempting to write and direct a movie based on a story that is about a relationship that endured more years than the actress has been alive.
Polley has made a movie that, at least judging from her words and the film’s promotional material, focuses on a theme of love and loss. The short story, for example, barely mentions the word love, and never in the context that Polley imagines. Munro is more concerned with memory than love. It is memory that defines a life. It is memory that constructs the edifice to support a relationship. It is memory that provides the context to nurture or destroy the fragility of the bonds holding two human beings together. Memory is the bear of the original title, it is the frail construct that bears witness to the drama of existence.
Munro’s story tells of a forty-five year marriage that is lurching to a miserable end, precipitated by the onset of a debilitating disease. Fiona, the wife, experiences the effects of Alzheimer’s, leaving her memory in tatters and robbing her of the ability to cope with a daily routine. She is convinced that she must remand herself to a nursing home. In a noticeably authorial (and hard-to-believe this was ever done) device, husband Grant is forbidden to see her for a month-long settling in time. In that time, the fragility of memory conspires with the apparent forces of karmic retribution to present a heart-wrenching conclusion.
The genius of Munro’s story lies more in what she doesn’t write. Her narrator’s voice steadfastly avoids any hint of judgement, yet allows Grant to recount his life in all its damning, adulterous details. Despite his rationalizations and implied protestations of innocence, his memory exposes an ordinary life filled with human failings. He was a hard-working and learned professor, attempting to dissuade the attention of the lonely wives and available co-eds. But it was impossible to ignore the adventures of other faculty members. It was the norm. The sexual revolution was roaring all around him, all around campus. It could not be denied.
Grant was lucky to have originally attracted the attentions of Fiona, the narrator subtly notes. She had ‘the spark of life’, therein implying his deficiencies. He obtained tenure with the help of his father-in-law’s money, yet he blithely risks his career and marriage. He was fortunate not to have lost everything. He and Fiona were borne of a different generation and instilled with a more inviolate sense of marriage. In any case, their relationship prevailed. Fiona ignored the infidelities, though the details are left unsaid.
And when his wife no longer seems to recognize him, he hangs on with dogged loyalty. His last shot at caring for Fiona invokes the memory of his failures with exquisite, piercing precision.
The story has been repackaged into a ‘new’ paperback collection of Munro stories, in order to capitalize on the release of the film based on the story. It also comes with a gushingly earnest foreword written by Sarah Polley, the actress who has directed the movie.
Polley’s notes are not just marketing-speak. She seems truly filled with passion about the Munro story she read as a passenger flying out of an Icelandic film shoot. Polley tells a meandering tale of her own quest for love and a meaningful relationship, and makes the claim that the story helped her achieve a better understanding of the difference between enduring love and passion. Polley also writes that she immediately saw fellow actor Julie Christie playing the role of Fiona, the main female character of the story. This is convenient, of course, since Polley had just been acting in a film with Christie. And there’s also the coincidence of Fiona’s Icelandic heritage, which appeared almost spiritually coincidental to Polley.
One wonders if Alice Munro will one day be inspired to write an insightful look at the folly of a youthful actress attempting to write and direct a movie based on a story that is about a relationship that endured more years than the actress has been alive.
Polley has made a movie that, at least judging from her words and the film’s promotional material, focuses on a theme of love and loss. The short story, for example, barely mentions the word love, and never in the context that Polley imagines. Munro is more concerned with memory than love. It is memory that defines a life. It is memory that constructs the edifice to support a relationship. It is memory that provides the context to nurture or destroy the fragility of the bonds holding two human beings together. Memory is the bear of the original title, it is the frail construct that bears witness to the drama of existence.
Munro’s story tells of a forty-five year marriage that is lurching to a miserable end, precipitated by the onset of a debilitating disease. Fiona, the wife, experiences the effects of Alzheimer’s, leaving her memory in tatters and robbing her of the ability to cope with a daily routine. She is convinced that she must remand herself to a nursing home. In a noticeably authorial (and hard-to-believe this was ever done) device, husband Grant is forbidden to see her for a month-long settling in time. In that time, the fragility of memory conspires with the apparent forces of karmic retribution to present a heart-wrenching conclusion.
The genius of Munro’s story lies more in what she doesn’t write. Her narrator’s voice steadfastly avoids any hint of judgement, yet allows Grant to recount his life in all its damning, adulterous details. Despite his rationalizations and implied protestations of innocence, his memory exposes an ordinary life filled with human failings. He was a hard-working and learned professor, attempting to dissuade the attention of the lonely wives and available co-eds. But it was impossible to ignore the adventures of other faculty members. It was the norm. The sexual revolution was roaring all around him, all around campus. It could not be denied.
Grant was lucky to have originally attracted the attentions of Fiona, the narrator subtly notes. She had ‘the spark of life’, therein implying his deficiencies. He obtained tenure with the help of his father-in-law’s money, yet he blithely risks his career and marriage. He was fortunate not to have lost everything. He and Fiona were borne of a different generation and instilled with a more inviolate sense of marriage. In any case, their relationship prevailed. Fiona ignored the infidelities, though the details are left unsaid.
And when his wife no longer seems to recognize him, he hangs on with dogged loyalty. His last shot at caring for Fiona invokes the memory of his failures with exquisite, piercing precision.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The Lost Room
The Lost Room
The Lost Room was a mini-series written and produced for the American Sci-Fi cable channel. It came across as an attempt at a David Lynch type story for the techno-geek audience, with a dash of “Being John Malkovich” as seasoning.
Unfortunately, it appears that the writers of the screenplay were about seventeen, as the movie barely rises above the level of a fantasy role-playing game. The story concerns a motel room that’s somehow been transported into an alternate reality. It is also a treasure hunt for a variety of everyday objects that were in the room, and exhibit some weirdly magical properties when utilized in the real world.
The plot of the story began nicely enough, hinging upon an illicit attempt to purchase the motel room key. The attempt ends in a spectacularly strange double murder, thus bringing Detective Joe Miller into the middle of the fray. Miller, played by Peter Krause of Six Feet Under fame, ends up with the key, discovers that the key will open any locked door, and will lead to the aforementioned room. His precocious eight-year-old daughter, Anna, reveals another convenient-to-the-plot piece of information. Anything left in the room disappears when the door is closed. Surprise. Surprise. She ends up an innocent victim of this magic act, thus setting the main thrust of the plotline. Detective Miller must solve the mystery of the lost room, in order to retrieve his daughter. Along the way, he will be shot at, framed, double-and-triple-crossed and flung out of the sky onto a deserted highway multiple times.
Julianna Margulies (of ER fame) provides the love interest one doesn’t quite trust, seeing that she’s one of the members of a cabal searching for the magical objects. Of course, there’s another cult competing in this effort, one that is both more ruthless and more ineffective (especially when required to move the plot along).
There’s also a coroner who was involved in the original investigation who get sucked into the vortex of strange object desire by the cult that believes the objects will reveal the thoughts of God. So he murders a cop, frames the other, sets someone on fire, kneels in prayer to a wacky deck of cards, then absconds with a couple of those precious, god-inspired objects from right under the nose of the cult he joined ten minutes ago. All in day’s work, I suppose. CSI material, he’s not.
Of course, there’s a criminal type named the Weasel searching for the objects, and a millionaire drycleaner played by Kevin Pollack also in play. Although his motivation is to cure his child of Leukemia - the boy does look ill, but curiously still has all his hair.
The cast of actors is impressive and they do their best. Ultimately, their plight is to continually look shocked or surprised or confused (I’m sure that look got easy) as events plunge them out of reality and into a motel room. Gladly, there was no sign of Norman Bates throughout the entire episodic extravaganza.
The Lost Room was a mini-series written and produced for the American Sci-Fi cable channel. It came across as an attempt at a David Lynch type story for the techno-geek audience, with a dash of “Being John Malkovich” as seasoning.
Unfortunately, it appears that the writers of the screenplay were about seventeen, as the movie barely rises above the level of a fantasy role-playing game. The story concerns a motel room that’s somehow been transported into an alternate reality. It is also a treasure hunt for a variety of everyday objects that were in the room, and exhibit some weirdly magical properties when utilized in the real world.
The plot of the story began nicely enough, hinging upon an illicit attempt to purchase the motel room key. The attempt ends in a spectacularly strange double murder, thus bringing Detective Joe Miller into the middle of the fray. Miller, played by Peter Krause of Six Feet Under fame, ends up with the key, discovers that the key will open any locked door, and will lead to the aforementioned room. His precocious eight-year-old daughter, Anna, reveals another convenient-to-the-plot piece of information. Anything left in the room disappears when the door is closed. Surprise. Surprise. She ends up an innocent victim of this magic act, thus setting the main thrust of the plotline. Detective Miller must solve the mystery of the lost room, in order to retrieve his daughter. Along the way, he will be shot at, framed, double-and-triple-crossed and flung out of the sky onto a deserted highway multiple times.
Julianna Margulies (of ER fame) provides the love interest one doesn’t quite trust, seeing that she’s one of the members of a cabal searching for the magical objects. Of course, there’s another cult competing in this effort, one that is both more ruthless and more ineffective (especially when required to move the plot along).
There’s also a coroner who was involved in the original investigation who get sucked into the vortex of strange object desire by the cult that believes the objects will reveal the thoughts of God. So he murders a cop, frames the other, sets someone on fire, kneels in prayer to a wacky deck of cards, then absconds with a couple of those precious, god-inspired objects from right under the nose of the cult he joined ten minutes ago. All in day’s work, I suppose. CSI material, he’s not.
Of course, there’s a criminal type named the Weasel searching for the objects, and a millionaire drycleaner played by Kevin Pollack also in play. Although his motivation is to cure his child of Leukemia - the boy does look ill, but curiously still has all his hair.
The cast of actors is impressive and they do their best. Ultimately, their plight is to continually look shocked or surprised or confused (I’m sure that look got easy) as events plunge them out of reality and into a motel room. Gladly, there was no sign of Norman Bates throughout the entire episodic extravaganza.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali
Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali
A memoir that forces one to think. About the effects of growing up amidst poverty and war in Somalia. About the incredible cruelty and oppression of female circumcision. About the role that the Islamic faith has played in the woman’s life, and in the lives of many African and Arabic females. About the values of Western Society and how this has impacted the integration of Islamic immigrants and refugees.
This memoir tells the very personal story of a brave, intelligent and resourceful woman who is able to escape the shackles of her upbringing in Somalia, and forge a new life of freedom in Holland. However, even as she finds her voice, tells her story and promotes her newfound values, the forces of Islamic repression threaten her life and attempt to kill her. The brutal murder of Theo Van Gogh brings her struggle to an unwanted head. The short film that Hirsi Ali and Van Gogh made together, Submission, was a vivid attempt to document the abuse of women that is promulgated under the name of Islam.
This incident is all too reminiscent of the controversy that erupted over Salman Rushdie novel, The Satanic Verses. Certainly, the fatwa issued urging his assassination highlighted the depth of intolerance that some Islamic leaders would promote, and how much their values differed from those of the West. The principal of freedom of expression, that ideas should be debated publicly under the standards of rationality and reason, was directly assaulted by this fatwa. Indeed, it is impossible to understand the belief that a person should be killed for something he said or wrote. It is indefensible, barbaric in the essential sense of the word, to call for the death of a person over an idea.
Before she was forced out of her short career as a member of the Dutch parliament, she cautioned that the famous Dutch tolerance of other cultures and lifestyles was not working in the case of Islamic immigrants and refugees. The Dutch people assumed that the Islamic values were congruent with their own, that the principals of equality and respect of different cultures and genders, the nurturing and education of children as independent and intelligent beings, that reason must prevail over dogma in a civilize society.
Ali contends, with eloquent and persuasive force, that Islamic thought has not been updated in the same manner as Western religions. It does not teach tolerance towards non-adherents to its philosophy, thus it cannot be said to promote peace. It does not teach equality; sections of the Qur'an are repeatedly used to justify the oppression and abuse of women. Their thoughts are worth half that of a man, they are considered property - the sexual slaves of their husbands. They must hide their bodies and suppress their own sensuality. They can be beaten at will, and will be stoned to death for the audacity of being raped. It is this manner of thought that Ali rails against, this forced submission of Islamic females under the guise of religious belief.
A memoir that forces one to think. About the effects of growing up amidst poverty and war in Somalia. About the incredible cruelty and oppression of female circumcision. About the role that the Islamic faith has played in the woman’s life, and in the lives of many African and Arabic females. About the values of Western Society and how this has impacted the integration of Islamic immigrants and refugees.
This memoir tells the very personal story of a brave, intelligent and resourceful woman who is able to escape the shackles of her upbringing in Somalia, and forge a new life of freedom in Holland. However, even as she finds her voice, tells her story and promotes her newfound values, the forces of Islamic repression threaten her life and attempt to kill her. The brutal murder of Theo Van Gogh brings her struggle to an unwanted head. The short film that Hirsi Ali and Van Gogh made together, Submission, was a vivid attempt to document the abuse of women that is promulgated under the name of Islam.
This incident is all too reminiscent of the controversy that erupted over Salman Rushdie novel, The Satanic Verses. Certainly, the fatwa issued urging his assassination highlighted the depth of intolerance that some Islamic leaders would promote, and how much their values differed from those of the West. The principal of freedom of expression, that ideas should be debated publicly under the standards of rationality and reason, was directly assaulted by this fatwa. Indeed, it is impossible to understand the belief that a person should be killed for something he said or wrote. It is indefensible, barbaric in the essential sense of the word, to call for the death of a person over an idea.
Before she was forced out of her short career as a member of the Dutch parliament, she cautioned that the famous Dutch tolerance of other cultures and lifestyles was not working in the case of Islamic immigrants and refugees. The Dutch people assumed that the Islamic values were congruent with their own, that the principals of equality and respect of different cultures and genders, the nurturing and education of children as independent and intelligent beings, that reason must prevail over dogma in a civilize society.
Ali contends, with eloquent and persuasive force, that Islamic thought has not been updated in the same manner as Western religions. It does not teach tolerance towards non-adherents to its philosophy, thus it cannot be said to promote peace. It does not teach equality; sections of the Qur'an are repeatedly used to justify the oppression and abuse of women. Their thoughts are worth half that of a man, they are considered property - the sexual slaves of their husbands. They must hide their bodies and suppress their own sensuality. They can be beaten at will, and will be stoned to death for the audacity of being raped. It is this manner of thought that Ali rails against, this forced submission of Islamic females under the guise of religious belief.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
V for Vendetta
V for Vendetta
A movie based on a comic book (excuse me, I mean graphic novel) leads to reduced expectations in terms of plot and character development, but seeks to satiate the viewer’s appetite for action and special effects. Despite the fact that the screenplay was penned by the Wachowski brothers of “The Matrix” fame, the film actually disappoints in the action/special effects arena. The masked protagonist known as V does have a penchant for super-dextrous knife play, but the scenes in which this is displayed are few and far between. In addition, the signature slow-motion special effect invented by the Wachowski brothers is utilized towards a strictly comic-book look-and-feel. Perhaps this is appropriate, but I was hoping for more.
Curiously, the story is more concerned with character development and plot. The conflict is rooted in the struggle for basic human and political ideals, for individual freedom and democratic representation. Its topical storyline addresses some fundamental concerns of the twenty-first century. How much individual freedom should be traded for security? How much power should be given to government in its fight against terrorism? And when exactly does a terrorist become a freedom fighter?
The most successful comic books turned into movies have been those with a carefully-constructed mythology honed over many years of story-telling. Superman is exiled from a dying world and becomes the ultimate immigrant persona, Clark Kent, tasked with preserving the American way of life. Peter Parker’s selfish behaviour causes the death of his beloved uncle, spawning a reluctantly responsible and perversely vengeful Spiderman.
V for Vendetta lacks its own mythology, so it creates one from a mishmash of history and literature. The dystopian society is plucked from the pages of George Orwell’s 1984, while V wears a Guy Fawkes mask, the symbol of a historical political malcontent who also liked to scheme and play with gunpowder. The movie’s convoluted plot meanders through a fitful year of buildup, which seemed to be more about convincing Evie, the damsel in distress, that V’s plans are morally essential, if a bit crazy. Unfortunately, this involves a few months of torture, imprisonment and deprivation for Evie, carried out by the supposedly caring V. And the difference between V and the fascist government was what exactly? Well, at least, the actress who played Evie, Natalie Portman, enjoyed her head-shaving scene.
V also takes over a television studio to deliver a vehement volley of vociferous vocality, an inspired speech filled with V words, that definitely convinces the viewer that the character must have spent the last ten years writing and rehearsing the speech. One wonders how long the actor playing the part, Hugo Weaving, had to practice that soliloquy. Weaving’s performance is admirable given that his face is hidden behind a mask for the entire film. His voice is his only acting tool, and its disembodied delivery is an eerie and dominating feature.
The film’s climax features a thousand mask-wearing extras milling about, invoking a disconcerting echo of the third Matrix movie where a few hundred Agent Smiths (also played by Hugo Weaving) are present.
A movie based on a comic book (excuse me, I mean graphic novel) leads to reduced expectations in terms of plot and character development, but seeks to satiate the viewer’s appetite for action and special effects. Despite the fact that the screenplay was penned by the Wachowski brothers of “The Matrix” fame, the film actually disappoints in the action/special effects arena. The masked protagonist known as V does have a penchant for super-dextrous knife play, but the scenes in which this is displayed are few and far between. In addition, the signature slow-motion special effect invented by the Wachowski brothers is utilized towards a strictly comic-book look-and-feel. Perhaps this is appropriate, but I was hoping for more.
Curiously, the story is more concerned with character development and plot. The conflict is rooted in the struggle for basic human and political ideals, for individual freedom and democratic representation. Its topical storyline addresses some fundamental concerns of the twenty-first century. How much individual freedom should be traded for security? How much power should be given to government in its fight against terrorism? And when exactly does a terrorist become a freedom fighter?
The most successful comic books turned into movies have been those with a carefully-constructed mythology honed over many years of story-telling. Superman is exiled from a dying world and becomes the ultimate immigrant persona, Clark Kent, tasked with preserving the American way of life. Peter Parker’s selfish behaviour causes the death of his beloved uncle, spawning a reluctantly responsible and perversely vengeful Spiderman.
V for Vendetta lacks its own mythology, so it creates one from a mishmash of history and literature. The dystopian society is plucked from the pages of George Orwell’s 1984, while V wears a Guy Fawkes mask, the symbol of a historical political malcontent who also liked to scheme and play with gunpowder. The movie’s convoluted plot meanders through a fitful year of buildup, which seemed to be more about convincing Evie, the damsel in distress, that V’s plans are morally essential, if a bit crazy. Unfortunately, this involves a few months of torture, imprisonment and deprivation for Evie, carried out by the supposedly caring V. And the difference between V and the fascist government was what exactly? Well, at least, the actress who played Evie, Natalie Portman, enjoyed her head-shaving scene.
V also takes over a television studio to deliver a vehement volley of vociferous vocality, an inspired speech filled with V words, that definitely convinces the viewer that the character must have spent the last ten years writing and rehearsing the speech. One wonders how long the actor playing the part, Hugo Weaving, had to practice that soliloquy. Weaving’s performance is admirable given that his face is hidden behind a mask for the entire film. His voice is his only acting tool, and its disembodied delivery is an eerie and dominating feature.
The film’s climax features a thousand mask-wearing extras milling about, invoking a disconcerting echo of the third Matrix movie where a few hundred Agent Smiths (also played by Hugo Weaving) are present.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Bridge to Terabithia
Bridge to Terabithia is a film targeted at the pre-teen market which tackles an extremely difficult subject. It was advertised as a fantasy-genre picture, complete with giants and elves and trees that come to life. That was a misleading tactic, as this movie is actually quite grounded in reality. It is about growing up, about the tension between responsibility and imagination, about fitting in and friendship. And ultimately, it is about something much more important.
Unfortunately, the writing is not quite up to snuff to pull all this off. The main characters are supposed to be around twelve years old, but seem to act younger, perhaps nine or ten. The film had to tread a fine line between reality and imagination. It had to be clear to the viewer what’s real and what isn’t. The line gets blurred at times, for a combination of reasons. The dialogue and character development undershot the proper age. The acting was wooden. The special effects, for a Disney, felt a little too cheap and unbelievable. And as a result, I was wondering about the reality of one of the main characters. This uncertainty completely changed how I perceived the major plot development of the film. The Bridge to Terabithia is supposed to be a bridge between childhood fantasy and the cruel reality of adulthood. And like the tree that conveniently falls from out of nowhere to form the crux of the bridge, it leaves the viewer disappointed at its end.
Unfortunately, the writing is not quite up to snuff to pull all this off. The main characters are supposed to be around twelve years old, but seem to act younger, perhaps nine or ten. The film had to tread a fine line between reality and imagination. It had to be clear to the viewer what’s real and what isn’t. The line gets blurred at times, for a combination of reasons. The dialogue and character development undershot the proper age. The acting was wooden. The special effects, for a Disney, felt a little too cheap and unbelievable. And as a result, I was wondering about the reality of one of the main characters. This uncertainty completely changed how I perceived the major plot development of the film. The Bridge to Terabithia is supposed to be a bridge between childhood fantasy and the cruel reality of adulthood. And like the tree that conveniently falls from out of nowhere to form the crux of the bridge, it leaves the viewer disappointed at its end.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Little Children
Little Children
Stereotype heaven comes to life in this film as 2-dimensional characters plod their way through a sea of thick, syrupy melodrama. There’s the dumpy female Lit student (it’s sad to watch Kate Winslet attempting to inhabit a physically unattractive character) who’s trapped in a boring marriage, wasn’t ready for motherhood, and her husband’s idea of intimacy is a bit lacking. Then there’s the neighbourhood house-husband-hunk who oh-so-unconsciously yearns for the glory of his youth, while his gorgeous wife keeps their child in the matrimonial bed and writes clever little notes to reinforce the emasculation. Neither of these couples seem the least bit affectionate or communicative; it’s a wonder how they ever got together and made the children. Of course, the two perfectly immature protagonists get hooked up in lustful adultery faster than one can say ‘naptime’.
The wonderfully obvious subplot of the movie features a staged, drawn-out conflict between a supposed sex offender and a damaged former police officer. The purported pedophile is the most fully drawn character in the film, as the actor manages to lend an ample amount of creepy pathos to the role. The ex-cop, unfortunately, is reduced to a caricature of depression and self-abuse, as he desperately seeks out friendship in the coldness of suburbia, and alternatively acts out in childishly-violent ways. Like the pedophile, of course, in his own pathetic manner...
It is the extended character epiphanies that insult the most. The ex-cop finds his heart amidst the regret. Sarah discovers that she doesn’t know her lover all that well, and that she does love her daughter after all - although it’s not clear why bringing her daughter back to the dismal home life would be considered a successful resolution. Patrick’s concussive epiphany is more ridiculous - he finds the rational path at the wrong end of a skateboard. The pedophile final act is the most fitting, although somewhat stomach-turning; it was foreshadowed well but not completely telegraphed.
Stereotype heaven comes to life in this film as 2-dimensional characters plod their way through a sea of thick, syrupy melodrama. There’s the dumpy female Lit student (it’s sad to watch Kate Winslet attempting to inhabit a physically unattractive character) who’s trapped in a boring marriage, wasn’t ready for motherhood, and her husband’s idea of intimacy is a bit lacking. Then there’s the neighbourhood house-husband-hunk who oh-so-unconsciously yearns for the glory of his youth, while his gorgeous wife keeps their child in the matrimonial bed and writes clever little notes to reinforce the emasculation. Neither of these couples seem the least bit affectionate or communicative; it’s a wonder how they ever got together and made the children. Of course, the two perfectly immature protagonists get hooked up in lustful adultery faster than one can say ‘naptime’.
The wonderfully obvious subplot of the movie features a staged, drawn-out conflict between a supposed sex offender and a damaged former police officer. The purported pedophile is the most fully drawn character in the film, as the actor manages to lend an ample amount of creepy pathos to the role. The ex-cop, unfortunately, is reduced to a caricature of depression and self-abuse, as he desperately seeks out friendship in the coldness of suburbia, and alternatively acts out in childishly-violent ways. Like the pedophile, of course, in his own pathetic manner...
It is the extended character epiphanies that insult the most. The ex-cop finds his heart amidst the regret. Sarah discovers that she doesn’t know her lover all that well, and that she does love her daughter after all - although it’s not clear why bringing her daughter back to the dismal home life would be considered a successful resolution. Patrick’s concussive epiphany is more ridiculous - he finds the rational path at the wrong end of a skateboard. The pedophile final act is the most fitting, although somewhat stomach-turning; it was foreshadowed well but not completely telegraphed.
Friday, September 7, 2007
2 Days in Paris
2 Days in Paris
A French take on the romantic comedy. At times, it is laugh out loud funny, though its frenetic pace and continuous stream of bilingual dialogue left at least one viewer semi-exhausted.
One might imagine this movie as produced in Hollywood. A struggling yet handsome New York writer-type falls in love in Paris, and brings home the girl of his dreams to meet his parents. Much canned laughter would abound through a series of misunderstandings and a combination of obnoxious pets and/or oversized breasts and/or unexpected flatulence jokes. All would eventually be resolved and the mixed-language couple would live happily ever after in their gorgeous Manhattan loft.
Instead this is an independent film written, directed and starring the French actress Julie Delpy. She portrays Marion, a photographer living in New York with her American boyfriend, Jack. She’s brought him to Paris for a short 2-day stay, where he’ll meet her ex-hippie parents, trouble-making sister and a copious number of her ex-boyfriends. Jack is a somewhat typical New York liberal with a quick, sarcastic mouth and a brain full of neuroses. The first scene outside the Paris train station sets the tone for this character. He clears the lineup for a taxi by sending a group of badly dressed, Bush-supporting, Davinci Code - questing American tourists on a mean-spirited wild goose walk into the nether lands of Paris. They’re looking for the Louvre. He gives them the wrong directions and justifies it as an exercise in cultural cleansing.
Ms. Delpy’s real-life ex-boyfriend Adam Goldberg portrays Jack, while her real-life parents assume the corresponding roles. This is either an interesting coincidence, an inspired casting decision, or a mechanism to keep costs down. Perhaps all three. The parents’ acting is either a touch wooden or completely over the top. At times, it seems like they’re on the verge of bursting out laughing. The father especially has a wild time inhabiting his role as an aging womanizer and gallery owner with a fascination for artistic depictions of the male sex organ. The penis does have a starring role in this film, both on-screen and off, acting as a focal point for some humourous pokes at the male ego and an occasional serious swipe at the sexual foibles and preoccupations of our different cultures.
The film succeeds for the most part in entertaining the viewer, while providing some insight into the struggle of a couple who are propelled by circumstance to a more intimate level of trust and understanding. There is a reliance by the director on the use of a voiceover (Marion’s character) to explain the action. This device was unnecessary and annoying, especially during the ending where it robbed the scene of much emotion.
A French take on the romantic comedy. At times, it is laugh out loud funny, though its frenetic pace and continuous stream of bilingual dialogue left at least one viewer semi-exhausted.
One might imagine this movie as produced in Hollywood. A struggling yet handsome New York writer-type falls in love in Paris, and brings home the girl of his dreams to meet his parents. Much canned laughter would abound through a series of misunderstandings and a combination of obnoxious pets and/or oversized breasts and/or unexpected flatulence jokes. All would eventually be resolved and the mixed-language couple would live happily ever after in their gorgeous Manhattan loft.
Instead this is an independent film written, directed and starring the French actress Julie Delpy. She portrays Marion, a photographer living in New York with her American boyfriend, Jack. She’s brought him to Paris for a short 2-day stay, where he’ll meet her ex-hippie parents, trouble-making sister and a copious number of her ex-boyfriends. Jack is a somewhat typical New York liberal with a quick, sarcastic mouth and a brain full of neuroses. The first scene outside the Paris train station sets the tone for this character. He clears the lineup for a taxi by sending a group of badly dressed, Bush-supporting, Davinci Code - questing American tourists on a mean-spirited wild goose walk into the nether lands of Paris. They’re looking for the Louvre. He gives them the wrong directions and justifies it as an exercise in cultural cleansing.
Ms. Delpy’s real-life ex-boyfriend Adam Goldberg portrays Jack, while her real-life parents assume the corresponding roles. This is either an interesting coincidence, an inspired casting decision, or a mechanism to keep costs down. Perhaps all three. The parents’ acting is either a touch wooden or completely over the top. At times, it seems like they’re on the verge of bursting out laughing. The father especially has a wild time inhabiting his role as an aging womanizer and gallery owner with a fascination for artistic depictions of the male sex organ. The penis does have a starring role in this film, both on-screen and off, acting as a focal point for some humourous pokes at the male ego and an occasional serious swipe at the sexual foibles and preoccupations of our different cultures.
The film succeeds for the most part in entertaining the viewer, while providing some insight into the struggle of a couple who are propelled by circumstance to a more intimate level of trust and understanding. There is a reliance by the director on the use of a voiceover (Marion’s character) to explain the action. This device was unnecessary and annoying, especially during the ending where it robbed the scene of much emotion.
Monday, September 3, 2007
The Sword of Truth series by Terry Goodkind
The Sword of Truth series by Terry Goodkind
This fantasy series of books written by Terry Goodkind was built upon a familiar mythology. A baby is hidden away from his evil father, who would’ve killed the boy if he’d known of his existence and continued survival. The boy is raised in ordinary fashion, kept ignorant of his birthright, yet destined to challenge his father for the control of the empire. This is pure fantasy, full of wizards and witches, riddles and enigmas, ninja-like warriors and, of course, a sword of retribution. Or at least, it should be pure fantasy. The author, to his credit, has created this magical world, populated with interesting characters, both heroes and villains. His writing is very strong, the actions are bold, the plot line is complex and suspenseful. Or at least it was.
Goodkind has created two memorable heroes. The war wizard, the seeker of truth, the sensitive killing machine named Richard Rahl. And he has a female counterpart who is very bit his equal. Kahlan Amnell, the mother confessor, can enslave any man with a simple touch. Of course, the author finds a way to bring these two together in an impossible union of love. And then continually writes plot events to rip them asunder, making them struggle to keep their love alive and their empire out of the hands of their enemies. And the enemies are ruthlessly interesting as well. There’s the Sisters of the Dark, who serve the wrong side of the religious divide, the devil-like Keeper. And the Dreamwalker, a Napoleonic-type figure named Emperor Jagang who can inhabit the minds of other people, leads an army bent on ridding the world of all magic, and is symbolic of a godless communist hordes out to destroy all that is good and right and special.
The series is one part melodrama, one part blood-soaked action thriller, one part magic show and one final part philosophical treatise. It is this final part, this detour into philosophy, that is problematic. Goodkind’s fascination with Ayn Rand’s Objectivism leads him to plot and character developments that make little sense. And even less excitement. One novel features a villainous Sister of the Dark who abducts the hero in order to teach him a little socialist humility. This is a woman who has pledged her soul to the dark side. Another plot line highlights a misguided bureaucratic society that invites the enemy within its gates. Or a civilization that has embraced pacifism and doesn’t live to regret it. One gets the idea. But it seems Goodkind is intent on beating the reader over the head with these ideas, to the obvious detriment of his plots.
On his web site, Goodkind denies that his novel are intended to explain, advance or promote Objectivism. He would never sacrifice the reader’s enjoyment to his Randian ideals. Right. It makes me wonder why he needed to make that denial.
A series this long (the 11th novel is coming soon!) must certainly have its moments of repetition. Each novel seems to climax with the hero escaping a sure death, usually imprisoned somewhere in the underworld, spirit world, or just plain netherworld. And how many epic battles, ninja-like swordfests and extreme torture scenes can one read? Okay, I like the torture scenes, but still. And occasionally, it feels like Goodkind has taken the Stephen King express writing course for developing strange horror-inducing animals. Who can forget the blood-thirsty chicken that’s not really a chicken? Or the pet dragon-like animal who acts like a puppy, can pronounce a few misshapen words, and can kill ninjas like no one else (except for Richard)? Not me, that's for sure.
This fantasy series of books written by Terry Goodkind was built upon a familiar mythology. A baby is hidden away from his evil father, who would’ve killed the boy if he’d known of his existence and continued survival. The boy is raised in ordinary fashion, kept ignorant of his birthright, yet destined to challenge his father for the control of the empire. This is pure fantasy, full of wizards and witches, riddles and enigmas, ninja-like warriors and, of course, a sword of retribution. Or at least, it should be pure fantasy. The author, to his credit, has created this magical world, populated with interesting characters, both heroes and villains. His writing is very strong, the actions are bold, the plot line is complex and suspenseful. Or at least it was.
Goodkind has created two memorable heroes. The war wizard, the seeker of truth, the sensitive killing machine named Richard Rahl. And he has a female counterpart who is very bit his equal. Kahlan Amnell, the mother confessor, can enslave any man with a simple touch. Of course, the author finds a way to bring these two together in an impossible union of love. And then continually writes plot events to rip them asunder, making them struggle to keep their love alive and their empire out of the hands of their enemies. And the enemies are ruthlessly interesting as well. There’s the Sisters of the Dark, who serve the wrong side of the religious divide, the devil-like Keeper. And the Dreamwalker, a Napoleonic-type figure named Emperor Jagang who can inhabit the minds of other people, leads an army bent on ridding the world of all magic, and is symbolic of a godless communist hordes out to destroy all that is good and right and special.
The series is one part melodrama, one part blood-soaked action thriller, one part magic show and one final part philosophical treatise. It is this final part, this detour into philosophy, that is problematic. Goodkind’s fascination with Ayn Rand’s Objectivism leads him to plot and character developments that make little sense. And even less excitement. One novel features a villainous Sister of the Dark who abducts the hero in order to teach him a little socialist humility. This is a woman who has pledged her soul to the dark side. Another plot line highlights a misguided bureaucratic society that invites the enemy within its gates. Or a civilization that has embraced pacifism and doesn’t live to regret it. One gets the idea. But it seems Goodkind is intent on beating the reader over the head with these ideas, to the obvious detriment of his plots.
On his web site, Goodkind denies that his novel are intended to explain, advance or promote Objectivism. He would never sacrifice the reader’s enjoyment to his Randian ideals. Right. It makes me wonder why he needed to make that denial.
A series this long (the 11th novel is coming soon!) must certainly have its moments of repetition. Each novel seems to climax with the hero escaping a sure death, usually imprisoned somewhere in the underworld, spirit world, or just plain netherworld. And how many epic battles, ninja-like swordfests and extreme torture scenes can one read? Okay, I like the torture scenes, but still. And occasionally, it feels like Goodkind has taken the Stephen King express writing course for developing strange horror-inducing animals. Who can forget the blood-thirsty chicken that’s not really a chicken? Or the pet dragon-like animal who acts like a puppy, can pronounce a few misshapen words, and can kill ninjas like no one else (except for Richard)? Not me, that's for sure.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
The Painted Veil
The Painted Veil is a film that tries too hard. It wants to be a romantic, heroic, epic story but can’t quite manage to scale those heights. Its main characters are too self-absorbed to exhibit any true chemistry. Edward Norton imbues the bacteriologist-doctor Walter Fane with a convincing stereotypically waspish, stiffly repressed personality. As a result, the romantic hero is barely likeable, which certainly puts a damper on the romantic plot-line. Naomi Watts’ character, Kitty Fane, is vain, selfish and spoiled. And those are her good points. She throws herself into an adulterous affair with the caddish Liev Schrieber before the honeymoon bed is cold.
The heroic plot line isn’t more convincing. Dr. and Mrs. Fane dispatch themselves with suicidal fury into the middle of a cholera epidemic. Of course, despite their brazen attempts to appear ridiculously courageous, neither is infected until they discover their purpose. And their love.
The epic storyline becomes the most effective. The exotically beautiful and dangerously toxic setting of China in the 1920's provides an intriguing background. The paradox of colonialism is portrayed with appropriate complexity, its condescending oppressive nature played off against its ability to provide aid in dire circumstances.
Some of the film’s secondary characters seem one-dimensional. The mysterious Waddington (just what does he do?) is at first a symbol of oppressive colonialism, his Chinese concubine kept naked and compliant. Of course, things are not as they seem, but the character’s initial creepiness is never completely overcome. The enigmatic Colonel Yu is played as a symbol of China itself, distrustful and yearning for independence, but able to accept help when his hand is forced.
The film’s best scene happens almost by accident, illustrating a quirky, previously unseen component of Dr. Fane’s personality, as he counts the distance required to divert a secondary source of water for the village. He is a likeable hero for a moment, perhaps capturing the true emotion of the story as written by W. Somerset Maugham. But the scene fades, and the viewer is left, ultimately, with an epic and empty melodrama.
The heroic plot line isn’t more convincing. Dr. and Mrs. Fane dispatch themselves with suicidal fury into the middle of a cholera epidemic. Of course, despite their brazen attempts to appear ridiculously courageous, neither is infected until they discover their purpose. And their love.
The epic storyline becomes the most effective. The exotically beautiful and dangerously toxic setting of China in the 1920's provides an intriguing background. The paradox of colonialism is portrayed with appropriate complexity, its condescending oppressive nature played off against its ability to provide aid in dire circumstances.
Some of the film’s secondary characters seem one-dimensional. The mysterious Waddington (just what does he do?) is at first a symbol of oppressive colonialism, his Chinese concubine kept naked and compliant. Of course, things are not as they seem, but the character’s initial creepiness is never completely overcome. The enigmatic Colonel Yu is played as a symbol of China itself, distrustful and yearning for independence, but able to accept help when his hand is forced.
The film’s best scene happens almost by accident, illustrating a quirky, previously unseen component of Dr. Fane’s personality, as he counts the distance required to divert a secondary source of water for the village. He is a likeable hero for a moment, perhaps capturing the true emotion of the story as written by W. Somerset Maugham. But the scene fades, and the viewer is left, ultimately, with an epic and empty melodrama.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Volver
Volver
The opening scene - a choreographed dance of black-clad widows cleaning the graves of their dead husbands - sets a surreal tone that continues for its length. It is a movie about death, about profound disappointment, and how these events affect the lives of the characters. Penelope Cruz and friends fill the screen with passion. As the title of the movie suggests, the theme is all about returning - Volver is the Spanish verb meaning ‘to return’. This movie is definitely not a typical mystery - the twists and turns in its plot don’t really provoke any suspense, but rather loop back upon themselves in various incestuous developments. A daughter kills in self-preservation, then a mother returns from the dead after providing the ultimate in matriarchal revenge. And yet, this film is not dominated by these occasional descents into darkness; rather, it revels in the voluptuousness of its actors, the sumptuousness of the Spanish scenery, the luxury of its food and music. A self-deprecating sense of humour also dominates the action, enabling the characters to fully inhabit the absurdist terrain that Almodovar, the director, has created .
The opening scene - a choreographed dance of black-clad widows cleaning the graves of their dead husbands - sets a surreal tone that continues for its length. It is a movie about death, about profound disappointment, and how these events affect the lives of the characters. Penelope Cruz and friends fill the screen with passion. As the title of the movie suggests, the theme is all about returning - Volver is the Spanish verb meaning ‘to return’. This movie is definitely not a typical mystery - the twists and turns in its plot don’t really provoke any suspense, but rather loop back upon themselves in various incestuous developments. A daughter kills in self-preservation, then a mother returns from the dead after providing the ultimate in matriarchal revenge. And yet, this film is not dominated by these occasional descents into darkness; rather, it revels in the voluptuousness of its actors, the sumptuousness of the Spanish scenery, the luxury of its food and music. A self-deprecating sense of humour also dominates the action, enabling the characters to fully inhabit the absurdist terrain that Almodovar, the director, has created .
Friday, August 31, 2007
lullabies for little criminals by Heather O’Neill
lullabies for little criminals by Heather O’Neill
A disturbing novel, creepy at times, as it recounts in first-person narrative the exploits of Baby, a twelve year old girl who is navigating a childhood more akin to a minefield laced with bombs and other dangers presented by the adult world. For the majority of the novel, the narrator’s voice is pitch-perfect, presenting Baby’s emotions and observations unfiltered by any mature viewpoint. The reader is able to revel in any delight she is able to experience, even when it is an event most would take for granted. We are drawn into her world, reading with hope that she’ll be able to survive the latest setback, yet knowing that she doesn’t have much a chance. At points, I dreaded to turn the page, contemplated peering between fingers to obscure my reading, if only this would delay the horrible events that I was sure were about to occur.
Yet the horror doesn’t quite descend in the manner the reader expects. That is the brilliance of this novel’s voice. Baby’s descent into premature adulthood is told her in own voice, free from any moralistic waving of hands. She knows when she does something wrong, when it’s bad, but doesn’t understand why. She’s never really been taught any values other than what it takes to survive; after all, her father is a junkie who can barely take care of himself. Street people, junkies, pimps and prostitutes - these are the role models for Baby and the other children that inhabit this novel. They raise themselves, imitate the violence that they see, glorify the lies and hypocrisy that they see in society, without comprehending any of it. They are street-smart and have all the freedom that teenagers could ever dream of, yet they lust for the fabled security of a ‘normal’ childhood.
Occasionally, the author tosses in an observation or an opinion from what seems to be an older version of the narrator. These insertions are problematic, jarring one out of the story without adding any retrospective value. There was no clue regarding how old this other narrator was, or how these experiences had affected her.
O’Neill’s novel describes one way in which the deviants, the criminals, the lost and forsaken of our society are incubated. The system ignores these children until it’s forced to deal with them. Sometimes it can provide some improvement in care. For example, Baby’s brief stay in a foster home is a previously unknown experience in stability. She was lucky in this instance. Conversely, a stay at a juvenile institution, a prison for kids, simply serves to reinforce her destructive lack of self-esteem. Moreover, it labels her in the eyes of society as a ‘system kid’. She will stray down the path that was pre-destined.
Children are resilient. They are never truly lost, not matter how forsaken. Until one day, they are lost. They become adults, expected to take care of themselves, to fit in, to become productive members of society. Even if they’ve never been taught how.
A disturbing novel, creepy at times, as it recounts in first-person narrative the exploits of Baby, a twelve year old girl who is navigating a childhood more akin to a minefield laced with bombs and other dangers presented by the adult world. For the majority of the novel, the narrator’s voice is pitch-perfect, presenting Baby’s emotions and observations unfiltered by any mature viewpoint. The reader is able to revel in any delight she is able to experience, even when it is an event most would take for granted. We are drawn into her world, reading with hope that she’ll be able to survive the latest setback, yet knowing that she doesn’t have much a chance. At points, I dreaded to turn the page, contemplated peering between fingers to obscure my reading, if only this would delay the horrible events that I was sure were about to occur.
Yet the horror doesn’t quite descend in the manner the reader expects. That is the brilliance of this novel’s voice. Baby’s descent into premature adulthood is told her in own voice, free from any moralistic waving of hands. She knows when she does something wrong, when it’s bad, but doesn’t understand why. She’s never really been taught any values other than what it takes to survive; after all, her father is a junkie who can barely take care of himself. Street people, junkies, pimps and prostitutes - these are the role models for Baby and the other children that inhabit this novel. They raise themselves, imitate the violence that they see, glorify the lies and hypocrisy that they see in society, without comprehending any of it. They are street-smart and have all the freedom that teenagers could ever dream of, yet they lust for the fabled security of a ‘normal’ childhood.
Occasionally, the author tosses in an observation or an opinion from what seems to be an older version of the narrator. These insertions are problematic, jarring one out of the story without adding any retrospective value. There was no clue regarding how old this other narrator was, or how these experiences had affected her.
O’Neill’s novel describes one way in which the deviants, the criminals, the lost and forsaken of our society are incubated. The system ignores these children until it’s forced to deal with them. Sometimes it can provide some improvement in care. For example, Baby’s brief stay in a foster home is a previously unknown experience in stability. She was lucky in this instance. Conversely, a stay at a juvenile institution, a prison for kids, simply serves to reinforce her destructive lack of self-esteem. Moreover, it labels her in the eyes of society as a ‘system kid’. She will stray down the path that was pre-destined.
Children are resilient. They are never truly lost, not matter how forsaken. Until one day, they are lost. They become adults, expected to take care of themselves, to fit in, to become productive members of society. Even if they’ve never been taught how.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Breach
Breach
Breach is a film based on the true story of the arrest of Robert Hansenn, a senior FBI agent, for the treasonous crime of espionage, the selling of secrets to his Soviet (later Russian) handlers. The story is told from the perspective of Eric O’Neill, a junior computer analyst for the FBI, who was surreptitiously assigned the task of spying on his new boss, agent Hansenn, for supposed practices of sexual deviancy. O’Neill figures out that the story fed to him is a cover and as such, discovers that he has been thrust into the middle of a high-profile agency investigation into Hansenn’s exploits as a Russian mole.
The film craftily builds suspense despite knowledge of the ultimate ending; the viewer realizes that Hansenn will be caught, just not how. More importantly, we don’t know if O’Neill will survive his undercover role.
Actor Chris Cooper portrays the devoutly Catholic, tightly-wound Hansenn as a man made arrogant by his superior intelligence, ruled by an overfed ego, and about to explode out of a life of hypocrisy and intricately layered lies. Hansenn is suspiciously paranoid, careful to the extreme, a super-agent who has survived twenty-five years of clever deception. O’Neill, played by actor Ryan Phillippe, and the other FBI agents walk a tense tightrope as they maneuver ways to search the suspect’s car and download the incriminating content of his palm pilot.
The writers of the film script make an attempt to understand the motivations of Hansenn. Why would such a man, intelligent, apparently moral and devout, dedicated to family and country, turn to treason? He accepted fairly large amounts of cash and jewelry in payment for his betrayal, yet that did not seem to have been the major factor. Perhaps it was a misguided patriotism, a disgust at the bureaucracy and incompetence that appears rampant in the FBI and other government institutions. But mostly, it appeared to be a matter of ego, a way of proving to the world that he was smarter than his colleagues, that his efficiently ruthless mode of operating would always be superior.
The film does subtly highlight the bureaucratic inefficiencies and the self-serving turf wars that hinder effective cooperation of the government agencies responsible for public security. A pallet of unopened Dell computers lay unattended and unused in a hallway. Inter-agency meetings are awkwardly arranged, then canceled at a whim. Egos are bruised, careers are advanced in the shooting range.
This internal investigation within the FBI ended in February, 2001, just months before September, 2001. One wonders about the many resources it consumed. What might these agents have been investigating otherwise?
It is unfortunately coincidental that another FBI agent named O’Neill, quit his job in that same time frame. The story of John O’Neill is also well-known. An expert on international terrorism with a focus on Osama Bin Laden, he became frustrated with the bureaucratic impedances to the performance of his duties and retired to become head of security at the World Trade Center. He died on September 11, 2001.
Breach is a film based on the true story of the arrest of Robert Hansenn, a senior FBI agent, for the treasonous crime of espionage, the selling of secrets to his Soviet (later Russian) handlers. The story is told from the perspective of Eric O’Neill, a junior computer analyst for the FBI, who was surreptitiously assigned the task of spying on his new boss, agent Hansenn, for supposed practices of sexual deviancy. O’Neill figures out that the story fed to him is a cover and as such, discovers that he has been thrust into the middle of a high-profile agency investigation into Hansenn’s exploits as a Russian mole.
The film craftily builds suspense despite knowledge of the ultimate ending; the viewer realizes that Hansenn will be caught, just not how. More importantly, we don’t know if O’Neill will survive his undercover role.
Actor Chris Cooper portrays the devoutly Catholic, tightly-wound Hansenn as a man made arrogant by his superior intelligence, ruled by an overfed ego, and about to explode out of a life of hypocrisy and intricately layered lies. Hansenn is suspiciously paranoid, careful to the extreme, a super-agent who has survived twenty-five years of clever deception. O’Neill, played by actor Ryan Phillippe, and the other FBI agents walk a tense tightrope as they maneuver ways to search the suspect’s car and download the incriminating content of his palm pilot.
The writers of the film script make an attempt to understand the motivations of Hansenn. Why would such a man, intelligent, apparently moral and devout, dedicated to family and country, turn to treason? He accepted fairly large amounts of cash and jewelry in payment for his betrayal, yet that did not seem to have been the major factor. Perhaps it was a misguided patriotism, a disgust at the bureaucracy and incompetence that appears rampant in the FBI and other government institutions. But mostly, it appeared to be a matter of ego, a way of proving to the world that he was smarter than his colleagues, that his efficiently ruthless mode of operating would always be superior.
The film does subtly highlight the bureaucratic inefficiencies and the self-serving turf wars that hinder effective cooperation of the government agencies responsible for public security. A pallet of unopened Dell computers lay unattended and unused in a hallway. Inter-agency meetings are awkwardly arranged, then canceled at a whim. Egos are bruised, careers are advanced in the shooting range.
This internal investigation within the FBI ended in February, 2001, just months before September, 2001. One wonders about the many resources it consumed. What might these agents have been investigating otherwise?
It is unfortunately coincidental that another FBI agent named O’Neill, quit his job in that same time frame. The story of John O’Neill is also well-known. An expert on international terrorism with a focus on Osama Bin Laden, he became frustrated with the bureaucratic impedances to the performance of his duties and retired to become head of security at the World Trade Center. He died on September 11, 2001.
Friday, August 24, 2007
You Shall Know Our Velocity by Dave Eggers
You Shall Know Our Velocity by Dave Eggers
The novel captures the reader from the first line. The narrator, Will Chmlielewski, reveals that he’s already dead. But his premature demise isn’t related to the story that follows.
The prose is elegant and beautiful, describing a series of events and motivations that could only make sense in the absurdly real universe the author creates. The protagonist and his sidekick navigate a world full of eccentricities and characters that resonate in a profound, off-kilter and intensely humorous fashion. They are trying to give away $80,000, a sum that Will unexpectedly earned by supplying a likeness of his silhouette to a corporate advertising campaign. This task is rendered more difficult than I could possibly imagine. Through it all, Will contemplates the meaning of loss, memory, friendship, family and life, among other things. Meanwhile his friend, Hand, urges continuous action, the better not to think, the perfect anti-heroic role model for the ADD-afflicted.
A shift in narrator, however, forces the reader to re-evaluate what this novel means. If it meant anything. Or what the truth is in our disturbed world.
This is the must-read novel for a self-absorbed generation.
The novel captures the reader from the first line. The narrator, Will Chmlielewski, reveals that he’s already dead. But his premature demise isn’t related to the story that follows.
The prose is elegant and beautiful, describing a series of events and motivations that could only make sense in the absurdly real universe the author creates. The protagonist and his sidekick navigate a world full of eccentricities and characters that resonate in a profound, off-kilter and intensely humorous fashion. They are trying to give away $80,000, a sum that Will unexpectedly earned by supplying a likeness of his silhouette to a corporate advertising campaign. This task is rendered more difficult than I could possibly imagine. Through it all, Will contemplates the meaning of loss, memory, friendship, family and life, among other things. Meanwhile his friend, Hand, urges continuous action, the better not to think, the perfect anti-heroic role model for the ADD-afflicted.
A shift in narrator, however, forces the reader to re-evaluate what this novel means. If it meant anything. Or what the truth is in our disturbed world.
This is the must-read novel for a self-absorbed generation.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Paris, Je T’aime
Paris, Je T’aime
An eclectic collection of directors and writers get together to present their widely-varied takes on the City of Love in a series of five to ten minutes vignettes.
A precious parking spot and a fainting spell conspire to bring two lonely people together. The dialogue sparks and engages in this scene that pokes fun at the twin themes of opportunity and risk.
A guy blows off his misogynist friends to come to the aid of a pretty, loosely veiled Muslim woman. The two exchange meaningful and wistful glances as the boy chases after the girl in literal fashion. It’s not difficult at all to believe that the boy (symbolizing France) can ignore society’s xenophobia and be attracted to this girl. Unfortunately, it was more difficult to believe that the girl’s (grand)father could be so accepting of the boy’s interest. But perhaps that is my prejudice showing.
A beautiful young man tries to seduce another beautiful young man, his one-sided poetic dialogue becoming increasingly aggressive and desperate as he is silently rebuffed. The reason for the object of affection’s lack of response is revealed to underscore the divide that language can affect.
The acting talents of Steve Buscemi are showcased as he wordlessly plays a clueless American toyed with by a cleverly arrogant French couple. The Coen brothers show that love is not always what it seems in Paris.
Another poignant take on the social divide between rich and poor, between native and immigrant, as a Latino nanny is forced to leave her own infant in a daycare to travel across the city to tend to her employer’s baby.
The surreal side of Paris is explored, as a hapless salesman visits a Chinatown hair salon with unexpected and inexplicable results.
A man must choose between taking care of his ailing wife or absconding with the quintessential Parisienne mistress.
Grief takes the strange form of a cowboy as a mother struggles to deal with the unending depths of loss.
A small boy playing the actor-narrator steals the scene as he explains how his parents met and fell in love. The difficulty of being a mime in Paris, of being different, of being incredibly annoying, is examined.
Nick Nolte puffs on too many cigarettes in an overly clever attempt to mislead the audience. He’s not really a dirty old man, okay, he’s a nice dirty old man.
An actress’ quest to get high goes nowhere in an appropriate and forgettable fashion.
One more take on the immigration issues in France as an African man’s request for coffee is slowly revealed, in flashback form, to be more than it seems.
Bob Hoskins portrays a likeable pervert trying to get lucky in a sleazy strip club - oh, how far one will go to keep love alive!
A backpacking tourist played by the always wide-eyed Elijah Wood finds the gothic side of Parisienne love.
Celebrity hunting in a Paris cemetery takes its toll on one’s sense of humour, and ultimately, on love.
A short cut shows that love is not always blind. Or is it?
Two old actors meet in a Paris café to finalize their divorce and discuss their young lovers in what is clearly meant to be a snappy, funny repartee, but falls way short of that. Gerard Depardieu makes his obligatory appearance in this scene that he co-directed.
Another sad-sack American tourist narrates her lonely Parisienne holiday in badly-accented French, wrapping up the film in a somewhat annoying but surprising affecting manner.
An eclectic collection of directors and writers get together to present their widely-varied takes on the City of Love in a series of five to ten minutes vignettes.
A precious parking spot and a fainting spell conspire to bring two lonely people together. The dialogue sparks and engages in this scene that pokes fun at the twin themes of opportunity and risk.
A guy blows off his misogynist friends to come to the aid of a pretty, loosely veiled Muslim woman. The two exchange meaningful and wistful glances as the boy chases after the girl in literal fashion. It’s not difficult at all to believe that the boy (symbolizing France) can ignore society’s xenophobia and be attracted to this girl. Unfortunately, it was more difficult to believe that the girl’s (grand)father could be so accepting of the boy’s interest. But perhaps that is my prejudice showing.
A beautiful young man tries to seduce another beautiful young man, his one-sided poetic dialogue becoming increasingly aggressive and desperate as he is silently rebuffed. The reason for the object of affection’s lack of response is revealed to underscore the divide that language can affect.
The acting talents of Steve Buscemi are showcased as he wordlessly plays a clueless American toyed with by a cleverly arrogant French couple. The Coen brothers show that love is not always what it seems in Paris.
Another poignant take on the social divide between rich and poor, between native and immigrant, as a Latino nanny is forced to leave her own infant in a daycare to travel across the city to tend to her employer’s baby.
The surreal side of Paris is explored, as a hapless salesman visits a Chinatown hair salon with unexpected and inexplicable results.
A man must choose between taking care of his ailing wife or absconding with the quintessential Parisienne mistress.
Grief takes the strange form of a cowboy as a mother struggles to deal with the unending depths of loss.
A small boy playing the actor-narrator steals the scene as he explains how his parents met and fell in love. The difficulty of being a mime in Paris, of being different, of being incredibly annoying, is examined.
Nick Nolte puffs on too many cigarettes in an overly clever attempt to mislead the audience. He’s not really a dirty old man, okay, he’s a nice dirty old man.
An actress’ quest to get high goes nowhere in an appropriate and forgettable fashion.
One more take on the immigration issues in France as an African man’s request for coffee is slowly revealed, in flashback form, to be more than it seems.
Bob Hoskins portrays a likeable pervert trying to get lucky in a sleazy strip club - oh, how far one will go to keep love alive!
A backpacking tourist played by the always wide-eyed Elijah Wood finds the gothic side of Parisienne love.
Celebrity hunting in a Paris cemetery takes its toll on one’s sense of humour, and ultimately, on love.
A short cut shows that love is not always blind. Or is it?
Two old actors meet in a Paris café to finalize their divorce and discuss their young lovers in what is clearly meant to be a snappy, funny repartee, but falls way short of that. Gerard Depardieu makes his obligatory appearance in this scene that he co-directed.
Another sad-sack American tourist narrates her lonely Parisienne holiday in badly-accented French, wrapping up the film in a somewhat annoying but surprising affecting manner.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
The Secret Life of Words
The Secret Life of Words
A movie about the incredible damage that human beings can inflict on each other, and how the simple act of honest communication can apply a restorative, perhaps even curative, balm upon the psyche. Sarah Polley plays the lead role with convincing restraint. Her natural beauty is downplayed but cannot be completely suppressed. Her character, Hannah, is introduced as a hearing-impaired factory worker who lives an obviously dreary and severely regimented life. The clues to the underlying emotional damage mount up. She eats alone, the same monastic meal, chicken nuggets with white rice and a piece of apple, all the time. Her posture is slumped and defeated, she moves with an almost lifeless precision, she turns her hearing aid off to shut out the noise of the world.
The impetus to change comes via a complaint from her trade union colleagues that forces her to take an undesired vacation. She travels to a British seaside resort where she, by chance, overhears a phone conversation. The man on the phone needs to find a nurse to take care of an injured worker on an oil rig. Hannah, desperate to avoid her vacation time, volunteers to be that nurse.
Of course, it is a quite a leap to believe that this emotionally fractured woman would take this impetuous plunge into a world she knows nothing about. Indeed, the discrepancies that this film presents, both large and small, gradually eat into its believability. Hannah is hearing-impaired, yet never seems to have any problem hearing. She displays some form of obsessive-compulsive disorder related to a phobia of dirt and germs, yet seems to integrate into the world of oil rigs and patient care without a second thought. She is hired as a nurse and helicoptered off to the oil rig with nary a check on her nursing credentials - we later find out she was a nursing student. More importantly, considering what is later revealed about her past, Hannah is willing to jump into the isolated environment of an oil rig, to be the only women in a population of lonely men.
Tim Robbins plays the role of the patient (named Josef), an especially difficult one given his inability to see or move. For some reason (perhaps to give the actor more room to act), the patient’s eyes are not bandaged. However, in the scene near the end of the movie where he regains his sight, another nurse is shown removing the bandages...
Josef must form a connection with his recalcitrant nurse with words alone. He is portrayed as a charismatic person, a bit of a womanizer, though one who avoids commitments. His injuries are self-inflicted, both literally and figuratively. He tried to save his suicidal friend’s life by plucking him for a fire; he also feels responsible for the suicide - he had seduced his friend’s wife.
So Hannah tends to his wounds and listens to his secrets. Even though it is obvious where this is going, the scene where Hannah reveals her secrets to him was shocking, both visually and emotionally. It reveals a brutality of war that is seldom talked about. Torture and rape is used as a tactic to instill fear in the populace, and to strip away the fragile morality of the combatants. Her confession scene is powerful, it might have been better to end the film soon after. However, the film makers wanted more than that - they force a scene with Hannah’s therapist, a scene that preaches more than reveals.
One final note about the young voice that narrates occasionally. The accent is difficult to understand and leaves the viewer straining to listen. The narrator is Hannah’s friend that didn’t survive. It is symbolic of all victims of wartime rape and torture. The voice of Hannah’s friend is the voice of Hannah’s youthful innocence that’s been carved away and sacrificed to the gods of war.
A movie about the incredible damage that human beings can inflict on each other, and how the simple act of honest communication can apply a restorative, perhaps even curative, balm upon the psyche. Sarah Polley plays the lead role with convincing restraint. Her natural beauty is downplayed but cannot be completely suppressed. Her character, Hannah, is introduced as a hearing-impaired factory worker who lives an obviously dreary and severely regimented life. The clues to the underlying emotional damage mount up. She eats alone, the same monastic meal, chicken nuggets with white rice and a piece of apple, all the time. Her posture is slumped and defeated, she moves with an almost lifeless precision, she turns her hearing aid off to shut out the noise of the world.
The impetus to change comes via a complaint from her trade union colleagues that forces her to take an undesired vacation. She travels to a British seaside resort where she, by chance, overhears a phone conversation. The man on the phone needs to find a nurse to take care of an injured worker on an oil rig. Hannah, desperate to avoid her vacation time, volunteers to be that nurse.
Of course, it is a quite a leap to believe that this emotionally fractured woman would take this impetuous plunge into a world she knows nothing about. Indeed, the discrepancies that this film presents, both large and small, gradually eat into its believability. Hannah is hearing-impaired, yet never seems to have any problem hearing. She displays some form of obsessive-compulsive disorder related to a phobia of dirt and germs, yet seems to integrate into the world of oil rigs and patient care without a second thought. She is hired as a nurse and helicoptered off to the oil rig with nary a check on her nursing credentials - we later find out she was a nursing student. More importantly, considering what is later revealed about her past, Hannah is willing to jump into the isolated environment of an oil rig, to be the only women in a population of lonely men.
Tim Robbins plays the role of the patient (named Josef), an especially difficult one given his inability to see or move. For some reason (perhaps to give the actor more room to act), the patient’s eyes are not bandaged. However, in the scene near the end of the movie where he regains his sight, another nurse is shown removing the bandages...
Josef must form a connection with his recalcitrant nurse with words alone. He is portrayed as a charismatic person, a bit of a womanizer, though one who avoids commitments. His injuries are self-inflicted, both literally and figuratively. He tried to save his suicidal friend’s life by plucking him for a fire; he also feels responsible for the suicide - he had seduced his friend’s wife.
So Hannah tends to his wounds and listens to his secrets. Even though it is obvious where this is going, the scene where Hannah reveals her secrets to him was shocking, both visually and emotionally. It reveals a brutality of war that is seldom talked about. Torture and rape is used as a tactic to instill fear in the populace, and to strip away the fragile morality of the combatants. Her confession scene is powerful, it might have been better to end the film soon after. However, the film makers wanted more than that - they force a scene with Hannah’s therapist, a scene that preaches more than reveals.
One final note about the young voice that narrates occasionally. The accent is difficult to understand and leaves the viewer straining to listen. The narrator is Hannah’s friend that didn’t survive. It is symbolic of all victims of wartime rape and torture. The voice of Hannah’s friend is the voice of Hannah’s youthful innocence that’s been carved away and sacrificed to the gods of war.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Anthem of a Reluctant Prophet by Joanne Proulx
Anthem of a Reluctant Prophet by Joanne Proulx
A coming of age novel with a twist. The teenage narrator’s ability to foretell and somehow experience the death of others is used as a metaphor for the pain and loneliness of adolescence, as a symbol of the inner belief that one is alone in the world, naked and vulnerable, full of nasty faults and hidden deficiencies. The author does an excellent job, for the most part, of painting a believable picture of teen angst. The protagonist, Luke Hunter, sometimes appears wiser than his years, but perhaps those were just flashes of insight that everyone occasionally experiences.
The plot line of the novel moves along nicely, with just enough surprises to keep the reader interested and engaged. The author uses humour effectively to balance some of the meatier, emotion-laden scenes. Luke’s relationship with his best friend, the semi-mysterious character of Fang, provides the most pivotal and moving conflict. In contrast, Luke’s potential girlfriend is perhaps the most cliched character in the novel - maybe because she’s an enigma from the narrator’s point of view.
The one not-quite-right part of the novel was, in my opinion, the manner in which the character expresses his interest of music. Luke catalogues the music of the day in a way that felt too much like the author showing off her research skills. And of course, these references have already dated the novel. Like the Smashing Pumpkins are so late 90's, okay, even if they’re on tour again.
A coming of age novel with a twist. The teenage narrator’s ability to foretell and somehow experience the death of others is used as a metaphor for the pain and loneliness of adolescence, as a symbol of the inner belief that one is alone in the world, naked and vulnerable, full of nasty faults and hidden deficiencies. The author does an excellent job, for the most part, of painting a believable picture of teen angst. The protagonist, Luke Hunter, sometimes appears wiser than his years, but perhaps those were just flashes of insight that everyone occasionally experiences.
The plot line of the novel moves along nicely, with just enough surprises to keep the reader interested and engaged. The author uses humour effectively to balance some of the meatier, emotion-laden scenes. Luke’s relationship with his best friend, the semi-mysterious character of Fang, provides the most pivotal and moving conflict. In contrast, Luke’s potential girlfriend is perhaps the most cliched character in the novel - maybe because she’s an enigma from the narrator’s point of view.
The one not-quite-right part of the novel was, in my opinion, the manner in which the character expresses his interest of music. Luke catalogues the music of the day in a way that felt too much like the author showing off her research skills. And of course, these references have already dated the novel. Like the Smashing Pumpkins are so late 90's, okay, even if they’re on tour again.
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Bourne Ultimatum
The Bourne Ultimatum
The tale of a spy who can’t remember. Jason Bourne is on a quest to find out who he really is and how he became a cold-blooded assassin. This is the third and supposedly final installment of the Bourne saga, and it is the grittiest yet. The thrill of the chase dominates the movie, as highlighted by an adrenaline-pumping, heart-stopping dash across the rooftops of Tangiers. Indeed, this movie uses a sized-down globe effectively as its setting, as Bourne hops from continent to continent, oblivious of post-911 counter-terror restrictions. Bourne is played as a super-hero (actually more of a super-anti-hero), able to jump borders with a single unobstructed leap, a sort of Jack Bauer on steroids. His dark side trails him like a ex-lover bent on revenge, showing its face in the form of flashbacks that surface at inconvenient plot points, ratcheting up the suspense factor whenever Bourne has a moment to spare.
Bourne’s identity search is complicated by his former employer’s wish to eliminate all evidence of his existence. A super-secret division of the CIA had been formed with the mandate to wage the ‘war on terror’. And the head of this division is portrayed with the stereotypical ruthlessness of amoral evil. The message is that America needed the freedom to kill purported terrorists, to bypass the overly bureaucratic rule of law, in order to save ‘American lives.’ Of course, this power is ultimately corruptive - the CIA head practically froths at the mouth in his lust to kill and cover up the mess they’ve created. Bourne is the living symbol of the underlying fallacy, the need to create a pre-programmed killing machine to save the concept of freedom.
The Bourne novels were written in the 1980's by Robert Ludlum. The screenwriters have clearly updated its themes to modern-day concerns, such as the virtually omniscient surveillance capabilities provided by London’s ubiquitous close-circuit cameras. Cleverly, the CIA is able to monitor, and even control, these video-feeds live and in colour, no doubt contributing to the paranoia of the tinfoil-hat crowd. Matt Damon is appropriately buff and stoic as the amnesiac assassin Jason Bourne, while David Strathairn plays up the bloodthirsty CIA Director Noah Vosen. Julia Stiles does another turn as the damsel in distress, albeit with a surprising lack of dialogue as she repeatedly stares wide-eyed while Jason plots and kills with equal ease.
The film delivers on what it promised, a suspenseful thrill ride through the secret world of anti-terrorist spies and assassins. It is short on plot and character development, instead filling the screen with non-stop action. It makes the most of its exotic locales, while its hand-held camera style alternately annoys with excessive shaking and thrills by putting the audience directly into scenes of speeding vehicles and crashing fists.
The tale of a spy who can’t remember. Jason Bourne is on a quest to find out who he really is and how he became a cold-blooded assassin. This is the third and supposedly final installment of the Bourne saga, and it is the grittiest yet. The thrill of the chase dominates the movie, as highlighted by an adrenaline-pumping, heart-stopping dash across the rooftops of Tangiers. Indeed, this movie uses a sized-down globe effectively as its setting, as Bourne hops from continent to continent, oblivious of post-911 counter-terror restrictions. Bourne is played as a super-hero (actually more of a super-anti-hero), able to jump borders with a single unobstructed leap, a sort of Jack Bauer on steroids. His dark side trails him like a ex-lover bent on revenge, showing its face in the form of flashbacks that surface at inconvenient plot points, ratcheting up the suspense factor whenever Bourne has a moment to spare.
Bourne’s identity search is complicated by his former employer’s wish to eliminate all evidence of his existence. A super-secret division of the CIA had been formed with the mandate to wage the ‘war on terror’. And the head of this division is portrayed with the stereotypical ruthlessness of amoral evil. The message is that America needed the freedom to kill purported terrorists, to bypass the overly bureaucratic rule of law, in order to save ‘American lives.’ Of course, this power is ultimately corruptive - the CIA head practically froths at the mouth in his lust to kill and cover up the mess they’ve created. Bourne is the living symbol of the underlying fallacy, the need to create a pre-programmed killing machine to save the concept of freedom.
The Bourne novels were written in the 1980's by Robert Ludlum. The screenwriters have clearly updated its themes to modern-day concerns, such as the virtually omniscient surveillance capabilities provided by London’s ubiquitous close-circuit cameras. Cleverly, the CIA is able to monitor, and even control, these video-feeds live and in colour, no doubt contributing to the paranoia of the tinfoil-hat crowd. Matt Damon is appropriately buff and stoic as the amnesiac assassin Jason Bourne, while David Strathairn plays up the bloodthirsty CIA Director Noah Vosen. Julia Stiles does another turn as the damsel in distress, albeit with a surprising lack of dialogue as she repeatedly stares wide-eyed while Jason plots and kills with equal ease.
The film delivers on what it promised, a suspenseful thrill ride through the secret world of anti-terrorist spies and assassins. It is short on plot and character development, instead filling the screen with non-stop action. It makes the most of its exotic locales, while its hand-held camera style alternately annoys with excessive shaking and thrills by putting the audience directly into scenes of speeding vehicles and crashing fists.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
The Hand on Marcus Adler
My short story "The Hand on Marcus Adler" has been published in issue #77 of Matrix magazine.
Currently reading
Blowing Up Russia: Terror from Within.
Yuri Felshtinsky, Alexander Litvinenko
A Russian Diary: A Journalist's Final Account of Life, Corruption, and Death in Putin's Russia
Anna Politkovskaya
Why: I have this fascination with Russian politics and life, probably generated from reading too many cold war type spy novels. Of course, the reality that both authors (Litvinenko and Politkovskaya) were assassinated is interesting. And scary.
Update: The prose in both is very dense - i suppose it's the difference in language and culture, although I think the translations could have been better done. The books are also not written in the Western style of journalism - they're full of claims and opinions that are not really backed up with much evidence other than the authors' opinions. I'm not sure what I'll ultimately get out of the books.
Yuri Felshtinsky, Alexander Litvinenko
A Russian Diary: A Journalist's Final Account of Life, Corruption, and Death in Putin's Russia
Anna Politkovskaya
Why: I have this fascination with Russian politics and life, probably generated from reading too many cold war type spy novels. Of course, the reality that both authors (Litvinenko and Politkovskaya) were assassinated is interesting. And scary.
Update: The prose in both is very dense - i suppose it's the difference in language and culture, although I think the translations could have been better done. The books are also not written in the Western style of journalism - they're full of claims and opinions that are not really backed up with much evidence other than the authors' opinions. I'm not sure what I'll ultimately get out of the books.
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