Hey folks, Harry here with the latest from Ghost Boy in the wild norths of Texas. He's seen two of the great films we have in the waiting for us all. Johnny Depp's FINDING NEVERLAND and then Almodovar's THE BAD EDUCATION. From Telluride, I've heard wonderful things regarding FINDING NEVERLAND, I can not wait to see for myself. Here's his look...
Hey Harry, Moriarty, and beloved cinephiles worldwide....
First of all -- thanks for the great Sky Captain event, Harry. It was a blast.
Second of all -- here are some reviews of some of the movies that any serious filmgoer is already anticipating seeing this Holiday season. I know that, for me, Christmas is always cheerier when I have an Almodovar film to look forward to, so to begin with, I'll raise your level of anticipation for his new effort...
THE BAD EDUCATION
Most directors are content to preface their films with a simple credit at the beginning of their films: A Film By, or something of that sort. A modest assertion of artistry. Pedro Almodovar, one the other hand, will have none of that; his name is the first thing we see in The Bad Education, splashed across the screen in bright red Ralph Steadman-esque letters, accompanied by a bombastic, noir-drenched score; this is one of his films, make no mistake about it.
Of course, it's not like we wouldn't immediately know it's one of his films anyway; his work has proved instantly recognizable and fairly inimitable. Perhaps no other filmmaker has ever been so passionately nonjudgmental; he goes where other storytellers may be afraid to venture, and does so with such enthusiasm and optimism that even the darkest, most depraved characters he turns his camera to become endearing. His films often showcase transsexuals, transvestites, junkies, sad and despairing people who are people nonetheless, capable of joy and humor like the rest of us; consider his last film, Talk To Her, in which the hero was a man who continuously rapes a comatose woman and in the process became a very sympathetic protagonist (the actor who played that part, Javier Camara, shows up again in this film as a drug addicted transsexual prostitute).
He begins here with a director, Enrique Goded (Fele Martinez), sitting in his office and trying to figure out what his next film is going to be. The setting is Madrid, the year 1980, and immediately we wonder if Almodovar is telling us a bit more of his life story this time around; that was, after all, the same time and place when he began making films. But Enrique is already quite successful, and after three films he's blocked; he pores through tabloids, stories of women eaten by alligators, looking for an idea for a new project.
Into his office one day comes Ignacio (Gael Garcia Bernal), an old friend from grade school. Enrique doesn't recognize him at first, but he welcomes him warmly anyway. Ignacio claims to be an actor, and even asks that he be referred to from now on by his stage name, Angel. He sort of suggests that he'd like to work with Enrique on a film, and Enrique nods and smile and doesn't make any promises. Then Ignacio hands him a manuscript -- a short story he's written, entitled 'The Visit.' "It's about when we were in school," he says.
Enrique reads the story that night in his empty luxury home in which all of his belonging are still in the boxes he moved them in. At this point, Almodovar plunges straight into the story itself, which concerns a transsexual hooker named Zahara (Bernal again, looking quite becoming in drag) who discovers one night that her john is an old friend from elementary school -- whose name, coincidentally, is Enrique. Old wounds open in Zahara, and she writes a manuscript of her own, also called 'The Visit,' and takes it to a Catholic church. There she finds Father Manolo, the priest who, it turns out, molested her back when she was still a naive young altar boy. She demands recompense for this offense, and then --
Then it's back to the real Enrique, but by that point we've become so wrapped up in the fictional story that we've forgotten there's more to the movie. The narrative takes another detour later on to tell the story of the Enrique and Ignacio in their school days, and their fate at the hands of the lustful Father Manolo (played, in this particular incarnation, by Daniel Gimenez-Chaco); is it the backstory to Zahara's story, or the real life events that set Enrique and Ignacio on the path that eventually finds them living and working together, both lovers and coworkers? The film requires a second viewing to figure out where all these tangents actually intersect but, in a more immediate sense, their cumulative effect leaves the viewer with no doubt about who these characters are when the film comes to an end.
When it did come to an end, I must admit, I felt pangs of disappointment; I was exhilarated, but I also couldn't help but wonder Is that it? After contemplating the film and reading interviews in which Almodovar asserted that this is simply his version of a film noir, I think I realized that the story, as it is, is completed, but that the characters are so wonderful and rich that Almodovar could have easily kept the film going with nary a complaint from the audience.
About that noir element; it is there, most definitely, in the beautiful pulp fiction illustrations of the opening credits and the brilliant score by Alberto Iglesias, and in more subtle form in the plot itself. There's a classic story of forbidden lust and murder and femme fatales, the latter element being both the most noirish and the most obscured -- there are, in fact, almost no women in the entire film.
This is Almodovar's most male-oriented film in the past few years; but, as always, he progresses beyond gender (most evident in a surprising sex scene early on where what it takes us a few moments to figure out exactly what is going on). He also progresses beyond judgment once again, this time in his perspective on Father Manolo (played in the real life part of the story by Lluis Homar), who eventually shuns his habit and tries to start a new life as a married man. It doesn't work, and while Almodovar never once condones his predatory actions, he also doesn't neglect to treat him as person and not a monster; we're reminded, somewhat, of the father in Happiness, who mustered from the audience equal parts hatred and sympathy.
At the end of the film, there's a coda which once again makes us wonder how much of this movie comes from Almodovar himself. Certainly, he must have put bits of himself up on screen in the scenes with the young alter boys, who discover their own sexuality at exactly the same time they discover the magic of cinema. He's spoken out about how the priest in the film is based on a priest from his schoolboy days. But Enrique is not him, no more so than any other character or image or sound or color; which is to say, it's all him, all Almodovar. The first thing we see in this film is his name, and the last thing we see on screen is the word Passion; what perfect bookends, these two words that, in the context of this filmmaker, are completely synonymous.
Okay, now that that love-fest is out of the way, here's something for all of you who eagerly anticipate the annual Miramax Oscar campaign: they'll probably be pushing this one pretty damn hard.
Finding Neverland
What a warm, cheerful film Finding Neverland -- like a cup of tea on a winter's day -- and what a surprise it is coming from director Marc Forster, whose previous two films, Everything Put Together and Monster's Ball explored such radical depths of human desperation. This new film, which recounts the origin of Peter Pan, is appropriate for the whole family. This may come as a bit of a disappointment to fans of more serious cinema, and I admit was taken aback by the mildness of the material. This is a film designed to make you shed a few tears and then leave the theater smiling broadly; there's room for a little sadness, but not darkness.
Forster and screenwriter David Magee certainly could have taken a darker route; in telling the story of playwrite J.M. Barrie, they certainly must have considered the rumors that still circulate about how his consideration for young children might have bordered on the inappropriate. These rumors are given only a few moments' acknowledgement in Finding Neverland, although being a grown friend to children is shown to be tricky business, particularly when one eschews one's own wife to spend time wth a lot of boys -- but as many spouses before and after Mary Barrie certainly learned, being married to a creative genius is never easy.
Johnny Depp plays that creative genius, and in the opening scenes when his latest adult oriented play flops and he has to answer to his financier (a droll cameo by Dustin Hoffman), I was reminded of his performance in Ed Wood, and his immortal claim that "my next film will be better!" Depp's Barrie is very much like Wood, actually, with the main difference being that Barries was actually very talented; his next play was better.
Barrie wrote Peter Pan for -- and, to some extent, about -- the three sons of a put-upon widow named Sylvia Llewyn Davies (Kate Winslet), one of whom was of course named Peter. He meets them one day in a park and finds in their innocence and exuberance all the inspiration that is devoid in the stifling social parties his wife Mary (Rhada Mitchell) wishes he'd attend with her. In Peter, especially, whose wide eyes express a sadness that he's far too young for, he sees a reflection of himself, a creative soul adrift in a world with no imagination. Peter is played by an utterly winning young lad named Freddie Highmore, and his scenes with Depp are the best in the film.
The play is written between scenes of domestic strife between and beautifully realized excursions into the world of make believe. Little figments of inspiration occupy the corners of the screen in the form of clocks and alligators, and Peter's games with the boys involve wild Indians and pirates and flights of fancy involving flight itself. Mary Barrie, meanwhile, suspects her husband of dalliances with Sylvia, and Sylvia's wealthy mother (Julie Christie) assumes likewise; Barrie seems to scarcely comprehend these accusations, but then he's operating on a completely different plane.
These are lovely themes that the movie deals with. Constant readers will surely know of my affinity for Peter Pan and all that it represents, and I was pleased to see the story celebrated and not condemned. But -- and of course there is a but -- I was also rather unimpressed; the film moved me, to be sure, but it never surprised me; it was very much about creating art, and yet too little artistry seemed present in it. From Marc Forster I sensed endless confidence and occasional joy, but too little passion; to be blunt, this film fits all too perfectly in the tailor-made-for-Oscar-season category, and that's something that always seems to hamper great directors. Particularly when they're working for Miramax (just look at Lasse Hallstrom).
After confessing my problems with a film like this, I always feel the need to backtrack and offer assurances that it's still worth seeing, and indeed there are many wonderful things about it; the performances, for example, are truly outstanding all around. But then mentioning the performances reminds me of poor Julie Christie's utterly thankless role, which exists merely to provide conflict and a terribly cheap bit of satisfaction at the end; in keeping with the Miramax-Oscar theme, this could have been the Judi Dench role. And somehow that leads me to the score, so technically perfect, so pervasive in every scene, so consistent in making sure we feel what we need to feel for the movie to work -- in advance, just for safety. At a certain point, I wondered if this might actually be a brilliant film buried beneath a layer of oppressive music.
Enough of that, though. You know by now what type of movie this is, and any disappointment that the film is not a masterpiece does not alter the fact that it's still a decent enough film, and that it will most likely succeed where it counts: audiences and Oscar voters alike will love this, will find their dispostions lifted by it, will most likely be enchanted, particularly the young and young at heart and those like me who feel their heartbeat surge every time they hear the phrase "I do believe in fairies." If that scene doesn't work for you, then there is another that you might sympathize with. There comes the inevitable moment where Mary reads Peter Pan for the first time, and comes to Barrie and wonders, sadly and enviously, what it's like to go to Neverland; she knows that she's far too grown up to ever experience it herself.
And that's it for this installment of Reviews I Feel Like Writing. I'll see if I can get my look at Primer submitted in a timely fashion, and until then...well, I guess look forward to these movies and treat yourself to a double feature of Sky Captain and The Brown Bunny.
I'm outta here...
