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Reviews
Lost in Translation (2003)
Ace
Bob Harris is a middle-aged actor as ugly as a monk with a grudge, stranded in Tokyo while he films a whisky commercial. Alone and bored, he discovers a kindred spirit in Charlotte, a twenty-something newlywed with an increasingly irksome and absent husband. The pair find solace from the city's disorientating strangeness in an uncategorisable relationship which drifts between father-and-daughter-like bonding and romantic tension.
Director Sofia Coppola displays faith in the audience's perceptiveness to understand characters and situations without excessive narration; romance radiates from the natural sense of warmth and sensitivity not as the result of explicit, manipulative scripting. Her mostly subtle approach is validated by the brief, ill-advised scenes of broad humour which rely on the apparent intrinsic hilarity of small people.
Bill Murray's droll, dark eyes plead to be sparked with life. His apathetic body-language displays a bemused resignation to fate, crucial to the sad but inevitable conclusion. Scarlet Johansson is a luminous presence, beautiful and graceful. However, both of their characters would have benefited from more empathetic situations; Bob is annoyingly dismissive of his work despite his excessive earnings and luxurious treatment while Charlotte's 'alienation' can frequently be inter operated as mere petty sulkiness.
The cinematography masterfully captures the seductive but hollow neon-landscape of Tokyo and thankfully doesn't presume the viewer will jerk-with-astonishment at the mere sight of symmetry as in The Virgin Suicides, and is sublimely complimented by the ambient, melancholic music of My Bloody Valentine and The Jesus And Mary Chain. Lost In Translation outclasses Richard Curtis' calculated shmatlz and is directed with enough warmth to make anyone overcritical feel like a perpetually-miserable black heart.
Christmas with the Kranks (2004)
As hilarious as frostbitten orphans
Adopted from the best-selling John Grisham novel and produced by Chris Columbus (Home Alone, Home Alone 2, some other stuff), Christmas With The Kranks squanders a talented cast (Curtis, Akroyd) and portrays the eponymous holiday as a time for ugly lynch-mobs and soul-destroying conformity. Well done, girls!
Former cocaine-dealer and Home Improvement star, Tim Allen plays standard 'everyman' Luther Krank. With his daughter leaving home for Peace Corps, Krank and his wife decide to ignore Christmas and save money for a Caribbean cruise instead. Unfortunately, what could have been a barbed critique on the shallow commercialism of a religious festival eventually conforms to high-street psychosis. After The Kranks' plan is exposed in the local newspaper, outraged neighbors subject the couple to a militant harassment-campaign, which successfully persuades them to re-consider (it is disturbing to contemplate how the neighborhood would treat Jews).
Furthermore, The Krank's daughter announces her intention to return home for the festive season and tiresome, wacky scrambles ensue to decorate sufficiently and buy presents. There are numerous scenes of idiot-pleasing pratfalls (people slipping on ice, walking into lampposts, etc) while Luther observes the chaos with the perpetually 'stunned' expression of a man who has just found a penis in his ice-cream. Sufferers of any terminal-illness are likely to be offended by a spectacularly misjudged subplot.
The nauseating conclusion implies that anybody who doesn't decorate their house in ludicrous neon-lighting and spend like crazy is un-American and has allowed their 'inner child' to die. As hilarious as frostbitten orphans, Christmas With The Kranks only succeeds as further incitement to despise Allen and Columbus. Rubbish.
The Football Factory (2004)
Blows the cobwebs away
Adapted from John King's novel, The Football Factory is a vibrant synthesis of Snatch, Trainspotting and that episode of Grange Hill where the boys organised a fight with another school. The story concentrates on three members of the infamous Chelsea Headhunter's 'firm', who use their team's matches as an excuse to brawl with rival pseudo-supporters; narrator and stereotypical twenty-something lad Tommy, dimwitted hardman Billy and repugnant rat-boy Zebedee (so-called because he likes 'white powder').
Although Tommy enjoys the adrenaline-rush of fighting, he is plagued by visions of a serious beating and starts to question whether the lifestyle is 'worth it'. Along with friend Rod, he has inadvertently upset several Millwall fans, just when the FC Cup has pitched their two teams, and thus firms, against each other.
All the staples of British cinema are evident; the insightful voice-over, pumping Britpop soundtrack and defiance of social-conformity (jobs and girlfriends are for losers, etc). Token comedy interludes are provided by two drug-addicted pensioners and a hilariously blinkered, Hoxton-like portrayal of Liverpool (apparently just a deserted wasteland, consisting of five scallies and a burned-out car).
The hooligans are portrayed as surprisingly intelligent, misunderstood people, embodying the brave, noble spirit of St. George and disillusioned by a dystopia society that doesn't understand them; which may be somewhat difficult to accept if you've ever spent a train-journey desperately trying to avoid eye-contact with drunken 'casuals'. Otherwise the film is gleeful exploitation and extends two-fingers to any expected moral allegories.
Director Nick Love's stylish cinematography and the young cast's accurate, energetic performances are sufficient to transcend the dated subject-matter. The Football Factory is an undemanding 90-minutes that blows the cobwebs away.
Exorcist: The Beginning (2004)
The Exorcist for the Slipknot generation
The Exorcist is possibly the greatest horror film ever made. Released in 1972, it still retains the power to shock and disturb; other films have generated controversy since, but none have featured a 13 year-old girl masturbating with a crucifix and screaming about Jesus' cock. Seemingly influenced by rubbish Hollywood blockbusters Tomb Raider and The Mummy, Renny Harlin has directed an ill-advised prequel to William Friedkin's masterpiece (the power of cash compels him). This is The Exorcist for the Slipknot generation,
Disillusioned by Nazi atrocities, Father Lankester Merrin temporarily loses his faith and becomes an archaeologist. When excavating in Africa, he is alerted to the site of a long-buried church to investigate strange occurrences; doors slam, beds mysteriously shake and sacrilegious images inspired by rubbish death-metal albums are unearthed. The plot is gradually possessed by the spirit of a Channel 5 action film.
Father Merrin is implausibly reinvented as an Indiana Jones-style adventurer, with his cool, wisecracking dialog and dick-swinging walk. His "Merrin... Father Merrin!" payoff is cringeworthy. The conclusion unwisely evokes the exorcism of Regan MacNeil from the first film, albeit with an older, lankier embodiment of Satan; but somehow a middle-aged, menopausal woman, bleeding and swearing, doesn't seem particularly shocking or unexpected.
Curiously, the initial script was written by Paul Schneider, apparently with a 'more cerebral, philosophical approach' to horror, but Warner Brothers, pessimistic about the box-office appeal of an intelligent, thoughtful film, asked Helin (Deep Blue Sea) to re-write the story with evil super-hyenas and comedy-tramps. Rubbish.
Koroshiya 1 (2001)
Different
Ichi is a video game-obsessed simpleton, hypnotized by policeman Anjo into believing that the Yakuzi used to bully him at school. Convinced he is a superhero who must liberate the world of bullies, Ichi kills several of the gangsters by copying Tekken maneuvers(!). Yakuza deputy Kakihara anticipates his impending death by Ichi (he is disillusioned with life and stuff!), hoping it will be the ultimate sadomasochistic thrill; naturally, he is disappointed to discover that Ichi isn't 'the ultimate killing machine' as the horrific deaths of his friends may suggest but a brainwashed thickie.
Director Miike attempts to add a respectable, moral message to Hideo Yamamoto's original story with the suggestion that Kakihara's foolish fear of Ichi is a comment on society's fear of the unknown (or something). Unfortunately, he seems to retire this notion after the first 30-minutes, apparently safe in the knowledge that his disturbed fans will be too aroused by the various scenes of disembowelment to care about any meaningful allegories.
The story's misogyny is uncomfortable but merely a consequence of the laughable homoeroticism that is currently so rampant in Japanese pop-culture, while the notorious violence is mostly rendered in CGI and ridiculously exaggerated, thus unlikely to disturb (unless you found Mortal Kombat 2 on the Megadrive a traumatic experience). Thankfully, each character has a unique look and personality (no 'who is who' oriental confusion); indeed, Asano Tadanobu's masochistic Kakihara is far more entertaining than Ichi himself.
Unfortunately, the relentless pace and weird twists soon become tedious despite Miike's often absurd efforts to maintain interest. At over two-hours, Ichi The Killer is ideal for anyone who desires to know what it is like to be trapped in a hellish nightclub with the worst migraine ever.
Bad Lieutenant (1992)
A Very Dark Comedy
In Abel Ferrerra's Bad Lieutenant, the eponymous rouge immediately transcends the 'rogue cop' stereotype by injecting heroin, smoking crack and drunkenly pouring vodka on his naked body. His somewhat unconventional approach to law-enforcement continues to include stealing impounded drugs, releasing criminals in exchange for money and using his authority to force girls to simulate sex-acts while he masturbates in the rain. This isn't Inspector Morse.
The derelict slums of downtown New York have swallowed the Lieutenant's soul and vomited it down a broken elevator. His withered ferret-face is an amalgamation of decades of Class A drugs and distress. However, his disinterest in his work alters when a beautiful young nun is raped; to solve the crime would offer some form of spiritual redemption, while the $50,000 reward would pay his debt to the mafia.
Keitel's incredible, emotionally-charged performance reaches its apex near the conclusion; The Lieutenant suffers a mental-breakdown at the church where the rape occurred and tearfully yells obscenities and waves his fist at an alcohol-induced hallucination of Jesus as a bewildered, elderly woman watches. It is simultaneously tragic and hilarious. The woman eventually tells the Lieutenant the name and address of the criminals; he vows to bring them to justice after he has smoked more crack. It soon becomes apparent that Ferrerra shares the same warped view of Catholic sensibilities as Martin Scorsese.
The Lieutenant's quest to find the true depths of human sin and the extent of God's forgiveness will disgust, excite and involuntarily entrance in equal measure. An extraordinary film.