DOUBLE FEATURE: "JCVD" dir. Mabrouk el Mechri (2008) + "Universal Soldier: Day of Reckoning" dir. John Hyams (2012)

"Nothing! I've done nothing! And I might just die in this post office..."                                                               --Jean-Claude Van Damme in JCVD 

JCVD is not an easy sell.  Perhaps too much of an "art film" for fans of Jean-Claude Van Damme's usual fare, and too rooted in an intimate understanding and portrayal of Van Damme for those who have largely ignored (or forgotten) the career of the Belgian actor who experienced his commercial success in the late 80's with movies like Bloodsport and Kickboxer, it should be noted that JCVD is one of the great movies from the last decade.  Though not nearly as high profile/budget as The Dark Knight or No Country For Old Men, in my thinking JCVD completes a triumvirate with those films, marking a particular period of movies grappling with the identity of the post-millenial Hero.  Along with the ambiguous heroic positioning of Christopher Nolan's Batman, in 2008 alone we had Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk, Hancock, another "Indiana Jones" movie, and the self-sacrifice of Clint in Gran Torino.  But none of those come at the Hero mythology in quite the way that Van Damme is "reincarnated" here.  Amid courtroom battles with his wife and daughter and being beaten out of roles by Steven Seagal, the hero of JCVD is primarily one of a celebrity living with the harsh transparencies of the media age.

Remember, Van Damme has been quite off the radar for some time. Though most have a sense of who he is and what he does, his survival is linked primarily to the video market; an aspect cleverly integrated into JCVD, which uses an actual video market--"Video Futur"--as a key location in the film.  When we meet the Arab proprietors of "Video Futur" they are discussing the stereotypical casting of Arab bad guys in a litany of 80's action flicks as Jean-Claude himself happens by their store, a clever cue as to how French director Mabrouk El Mechri wants to re-frame not only our perception of the hero, but of the cultural biases constructed from within his profession.  The single-take approach that tracks the encounter with the Video Futur guys mirrors the opening sequence, a lengthy single-take action sequence that propels us into the film before we have a chance to create a sense of "reality" in the world of JCVD.  From the encounter at the video store we follow Van Damme as he inadvertently talks his way into a hostage situation at the local post office, where two hapless criminals use Van Damme as their go-between in a fashion that brings to mind Dog Day Afternoon (note the John Cazale hair-do).  The media event that emerges from the hostage situation at the heart of the film's story is not new territory, and neither is the non-linear storytelling.  Stripped down to its heist-pic bones, JCVD would still be a pretty good action picture, maybe reminiscent of an early Tarantino knock-off.  And, even a movie about Jean-Claude himself might be appealing (though what I saw of his attempt at reality TV last year was not promising).  But, from those two base components, he and El Mechri manifest a recombinant genre piece with rare qualities:  an unpretentious, character-centered, meta-Action-flick.

Van Damme's acting in the film is truly remarkable, and not only in regards to what is maybe the most oft-noted scene:  a lengthy monologue delivered straight into the camera that has followed our hero/hostage into the lighting rigs above the film's set.  As Van Damme, the camera, the lights and the narrative all hover above the action, the actor indeed delivers a complex and heartbreaking monologue that is a fascinating blend of Brechtian theatrics and Straight-to-Video celebrity.  But it should be noted that Van Damme is excellent throughout the film, exacting and spontaneous in his response to each and every character he encounters.  I don't attribute this to Van Damme essentially playing "himself" here, as I don't believe that necessarily makes the job any easier.  JCVD adeptly details a number of disparate characters, large and small, each with their own distinct (and extreme) motivations, and Van Damme has the difficult job of negotiating his identity realistically within each of their spheres of expectation.

Even in the scenes that satellite the central hostage situation, each carefully placed in a way that eventually informs and complicates the central action, Van Damme exhibits an expressive restraint.  Many of the scenes that depict the professional and personal life of the actor are done in lengthy single takes, marking El Mechri's trust with Van Damme's ability to carry a scene in his reactions alone.  Of course, El Mechri sets us up for long takes in the elaborate Steadicam sequences, but his risk with the static long takes are at the heart of the emotional impact of the film.  In one of these static takes we see him in profile speaking with his agent, and in another through a backseat taxi window, the reflective rush of trees and sunlight moving across his shifting countenance as his driver relentlessly hounds him with questions and criticisms.  Ultimately, El Mechri is not only playing a shell game with the chronology of the film, but also carefully building these long takes to a final moment of static examination that places Van Damme simultaneously in a new genre context (the prison film) and the confines of his own very real struggles (or, at least, struggles we assume are real for Van Damme).  Even though El Mechri leaves us in one of the most cliched sets of melodrama, as Van Damme confronts his daughter through a prison telephone, what is captured in this moment carries both the weight of the unreal terrain we've traversed and an achingly real depth of character, which is no easy balancing act.

After 2008 the now 50+ year old actor has been going through an odd transformation in his films, most notably in the works of action director John Hyams who picked up the Universal Soldier franchise in 2009 with Regeneration and Day of Reckoning in 2012.  Hyams also directed Van Damme in a little-seen take on the "drug dealer take-down" genre, Dragon Eyes, featuring Cung Le (recently of RZA's luke-warm directorial debut The Man With the Iron Fists).  In Dragon Eyes, Hyams begins to define a role for Van Damme that uses his age and experience to a fairly effective end.  In both Dragon Eyes and Universal Soldier: Day of Reckoning Van Damme has become a contemplative presence, equal parts warrior, sage, and celebrity icon.  If JCVD showed us an unexpected capacity for naturalism in the actor's abilities, then the Hyams' films show us an almost minimalist approach.  Both Dragon Eyes and the Universal Soldier films, though Van Damme is not the central character in either, feel as much like reflections on the man himself as they do exercises in staged violence (which, granted, is a big part of their appeal).

Dragon Eyes

Universal Soldier: Day of Reckoning

But Dragon Eyes is just not a very good movie, barely held together by Hyam's adeptness at shooting action (which would have served RZA well in his debut) and a bit of scenery chewing by Peter Weller--or, rather, Dragon Eyes might look better in light of the significant accomplishments of Universal Soldier: Day of Reckoning, which manages to make a smart, suspenseful, and economical bloody thriller from limited resources.  I'm not the first to write about the unexpected surprise that is the 4th entry in the Universal Soldier series--for instance, Ignatiy Vishnevetsky's review of the film likened it less to the original Universal Soldier of the early 90's, and more to the likes of David Lynch's Lost Highway or David Cronenberg's Videodrome.  The comparison is somewhat apt, but I think US:DOR is more straightforward than either, its strengths residing in different dark corners.

For one, the film adopts a premise that would admittedly turn most people off from the get-go (yes, it involves genetically modified super-soldiers), and then proceeds to take it seriously.  That this fact is not apparent from the beginning of the film--a beautifully executed and shocking attempt to confine the viewer's perspective to the main character's POV--is maybe not to the film's advantage, as it tests our sensitivity to violence almost immediately, as well as our attitude toward witnessing Van Damme in an overtly villainous role.  But, the payoff is the unique way the film earns its violent excesses in the detailed unfolding of its premise, as Scott Adkin's "John" pieces together his peculiar existential crisis (echoing one of the progenitors of all Sci-Fi:  Mary Shelly's Frankenstein).  This measured unfolding takes us through many dim corridors, and eventually into the underground resistance presided over by a deranged, vocal Commander (series staple Dolph Lundgren) and the mostly silent, perching Luc Deveraux (Van Damme).  As John begins to discover his true nature--a constructed, hallucinatory identity--the design of the film itself begins to descend into some eerily recognizable realms of mediated reality.  The First-person perspective that initially seemed like a clever stylistic choice morphs into a chilling combination of a First-person shooter game and Apocalypse Now.

From this point on, the trajectory of the narrative behaves very much like that of a video game.  Of course, video game-to-film transpositions have a grand history of failure (as evidenced in another Van Damme vehicle, 1994's Street Fighter).  Universal Soldier: Day of Reckoning reminds us, in one sense, that there's no reason for that to be so.  In fact, simple paths of action make for some of the most engaging stories, especially when it comes to genre films.  The difference here is that something is at stake.  And, this is a primary difference between what Hyams achieves and what is truly lacking about much of its Action/Sci-Fi/Hero-Cycle brethren.  Though the recent trend in criticism is to label Hyams as a "Vulgar" auteurist, in light of US:DOR it seems that label should be reserved for those who did exactly the opposite of stepping up to the plate late in a franchise.  What's truly vulgar is pissing all over an already established and beloved series in search of a bit more box office, as with Sam Raimi (take your pick:  Evil Dead, Spider Man, or The Wizard of Oz).  In contrast to the sort of production budget excess that has destroyed the creative impact of a once revered director like Raimi, Hyams' comparatively cheap production value necessitates design choices that ultimately make US:DOR unusually beautiful and theatrical in a way that most Action flicks try to actively avoid (and, once again, that still make the design and special fx of the original Evil Dead's so enduring).  A current Raimi-sized budget would never have produced the makeshift quality that makes the underground lair of the super-solders in US:DOR so perfect; like the men who dwell there, filled with constructed and abandoned aggression, the structure is a misshapen masterpiece existing in a liminal reality.

Unlike the overt meta-move of "ascending into the light" from JCVD, the numerous, angled fluorescent tubes and deliberately placed work lights that line John's final, blood-soaked path to regain his world-view and destroy Deveraux moves us more subtly from the slightly unreal video game mode to the wholly Surreal.  Deveraux's face painted half clown-white/half pitch-black suggests less the elegance of the "Yin/Yang" symbol (central to the Chinese traditions of martial arts that Van Damme has aligned himself with throughout his personal and professional life) as it does the severed consciousness of a person no longer sure whether or not he's living in a hallucination.  The feeling must be a bit familiar for Van Damme.  The stage lights have shifted, and, like Deveraux, it's time to relinquish his position, all the while wondering if it ever mattered in the first place.

"Simple Men" dir. Hal Hartley, 1992

Simple Men was my first Hal Hartley film.  In 1992 I wasn't quite sure what to make of it, and was certain of only one thing after my initial viewing:  I didn't much like it.  I was around 20 and, not having a lot by which to gauge the experience, I thought maybe it was a parody of "Art Films."  But the film persisted, leaving a somewhat nagging impression.  It wasn't long before I returned to Simle Men in near-obsessive form, bouncing it off of friends to gauge their reactions (which usually ranged from slightly amused to downright bored) and soon tracked down and devoured every other Hartley film I could find.  I think this speaks to a unique quality that Simple Men retains to this day, which is the capacity to confound and delight in equal measure, as well as inspire investigation into the singular brand of auteur-ism Hartley so consistently offers up.  Perhaps not the best of Hartley's early feature work (roughly spanning 1989's The Unbelievable Truth through 1997's Henry Fool) it retains an undeniable emotional core; always the most surprising aspect of this most controlled and idiosyncratic director's work.

Of course, "idiosyncratic" might be a lazy way to describe what is ultimately an impressively detailed directorial signature, built from a keen appreciation of the most influential of his line.  Part Theater of the Absurd, part revisionist Noir, Hartley's work is often read through the lens of French Art House icons such as Robert Bresson and Jean-Luc Godard.  Simple Men is particularly evocative of Godard's work from the early 1960's, though these comparisons can be made to most of Hartley's early work, all similar to Godard in that they seem to occupy a shared "space" or "world" that is almost instantly recognizable, and are often blocked with the same deliberate sense of humor.  But Hartley is not one to wield the camera in quite the same manner as a young Godard, opting to work in the tradition of Bresson's more static attention to the face, the body, and to gesture.  After the shooting of Simple Men, Hartley noted in an interview the extent to which he was beginning to use his knowledge of Bresson more consciously:  "Bresson cuts right past everything that's superfluous and isolates an image that says exactly what it's meant to say."  Harltey and cinematographer Michael Spiller were certainly shooting for the same aesthetic parsimony as some of the great masters, but nothing about their work feels cheap or easy in the way it uses these influences, and is always imbued with their own comedic sensibilities.

Elina Lowensohn - Simple Men

Robert Bresson's Mouchette

With that said, the danger in critiquing Hartley's work seems to be the temptation to sum it up as a mere series of knock-offs, which it's not.  The great achievement of a film like Simple Men is that it's so unashamedly constructed of these influences, yet manages to have a personality all it's own.  Aside from the French New Wave, it seems important to mention the "Indie" late 80's/early 90's here, which was such a rich period for film makers who were working out the differences between reinvigorating forms of pastiche and simply stealing (it's the difference between Reservoir Dogs and Boondock Saints, kids).  The films being made in this period exhibit a fascinating range of post-modernist experimentation.  Think across the works of just a handful of directors working at this time--Van Sant, Ferrara, Figgis, Haynes, Soderbegh, Agoyan, Linklater, Kerrigan, Ridley, etc--and even among such distinguished company Hartley's films are some of the most distinctive and instantly recognizable.  Still, others may see Hartley as being more associated with the stylized examinations of class and privilege found in the works of Whit Stillman (Metropolitan, 1990), Noah Baumbach (Kicking and Screaming 1995), and Wes Anderson (Bottle Rocket short-'94, feature-'96).

Leaving Las Vegas

Karen Silas - Simple Men

Metropolitan

Harltey's films are first and foremost films of Dialogue, bringing to mind yet another emerging cinema presence in this period, Chicago's master of terse, idiosyncratic dialogue, David Mamet (Homicide '91, Glengarry Glen Ross, '92, Oleanna and Vanya on 42nd St., '94).  But unlike Mamet, Hartley is willing to let the dialogue swing loose from the confines of moving the narrative action forward.  In a playfully subversive scene late in Simple Men our primary players (Hartley regulars Bill Sage, Robert Burke, Karen Silas, Elina Lowensohn, and Martn Donovan) halt all proceedings of plot to get drunk and discuss the nature of exploitation in entertainment.  This conversation perfectly exhibits Hartley's tendency toward rhythmical loops of absurdist dialogue, leaving us with the questioning refrain:  "But what about the audience?" - "What about them?"  It may be the kind of scene that seemed fresher in the early 90's, but it still feels relevant to understanding Hartley's basic aesthetic proposition.  And (to loop back around to my initial comparison), the scene is particularly Godardian in a way that Mamet would never venture.

Louis Malle's Vanya on 42nd St. - from Mamet's adaptation of Chekhov

Martin Donovan and Robert Burke - Simple Men

But all of this cinephilic contextualizing is to make the point that Hartley's best, Simple Men among them, are successful in a way that transcends all the reference points.  Hartley's recombinant methods are always in service of building a new product from recycled materials, so to speak.  For instance, in Simple Men he takes a small moment of character tension between two men in love with the same woman that, in the hands of many writer/directors, would be played to bland, serviceable effect, but via Hartley is transformed into an unforgettable Mamet-meets-Abbott & Costello moment:

Martin:  I gotta go.

                      Bill:    No!

Martin:  I get too emotional when I drink 

Bill:    Have another beer! 

Martin:  I gotta get up early! 

Bill:    No you don't.  Sit Down. 

Martin:  (Sits back down) I get too emotional when
             I drink.

Bill:    Will you have another beer? 

Martin   (Stands up again) I gotta go 

Bill:    Why? 

Martin:  I gotta get up early in the morning. 

Bill:    Martin, you're drunk. 

Martin:  And emotional. 

Bill:    You gotta go. 

Martin:  Why? 

Bill:    You gotta get up early in the morning. 

The pronounced theatricality of Simple Men is most likely going to be off-putting to some; even for someone like myself who loves Hartley's work, there are moments of indulgence that stretch my patience a bit.  Once situated to the idea that the film circumvents the action that most Noir or Romantic Thrillers thrive on (the heist, the break-up of Kate and the psychotic Jack, the house fire and the bombing of the Pentagon) Simple Men becomes a surprisingly resonant character-centered film, though not in the tradition of anything close to Realism.  In fact, what makes Simple Men truly indelible are the moments that ascend from the mere theatrical to a more Brechtian ideal:  the heist denouement/opening involving a broken weapon, a Vigin Mary necklace, and a classic double-cross;  the encounter with Ned that turns a struggle with a broken down motorcycle into a moment of Performance Art; the final, transcendent moment of Bill's return that encapsulates both the plight of the characters and the director, as we hear a soft voice from off-screen:

"Don't move."

 NOTE:  This review can also be seen at Marcus Pinn's excellent film blog 

               "Pinnland Empire" 

                      as part of Hal Hartley Month - check it out!

Four Frames: "No Country For Old Men" dir. Joel and Ethan Coen, 2007

The following piece was written for THE BIG PICTURE MAGAZINE as part of their "Four Frames" series, which presents the critical challenge of isolating four frames from a film, or particular sequence in a film, in pursuit of revealing something about, well...the bigger picture.  Hopefully the precursor to a larger piece, here are a few initial thoughts about the character of Anton Chigurh:

Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem) has become one of the most iconic bad guys in cinema history.  With his penchant for quiet weaponry and disquieting conversation, the character takes on a mythic quality that reads to both the audience and the inhabitants of the film as an unstoppable force of evil, an angel of death, or, perhaps, as Lleweleyn Moss (Josh Brolin) questions after having been wounded from battle with the fellow Vietnam vet: "the ultimate badass?"  

Visually, we are introduced to both Chigurh and Moss through their violence. In the introductory sequence for Moss, we see him sniping antelope from a distance, tracking his prey, and ultimately coming across the "drug deal gone bad" that is the narrative catalyst for the film (like Llewelen's ultimate demise, a conflict of violence we are slyly denied).  What the Coens show us about Moss in this sequence is almost entirely centered around his nature as a soldier.  

The four frames I want to display and discuss here occur much later in the film, showing us Chigurh in a motel room, tending to the gunshot wound inflicted by Moss in their confrontation. This scene seems to me the "flipside" of Moss's opening sequence, but reveals something about Chigurh that is even more unsettling, heartbreaking even. Like the way in which Moss's opening sequence may be undervalued as simple "rising action," the sequence of Chigurh, alone, shedding his distinctive outfit (a wonderfully designed, slightly off attempt at "passing") and dressing his wounds may seem one of the most inconsequential sequences of the film; merely connective tissue designed to offset the climax to come. 

Of course, the climactic confrontation never does come. Or, rather, it has already happened. And, as with the great risk of the final sequence in the film, where the Coens usurp all aspects of Story for Character, asking us to settle on the dream narrative of Ed Tom Bell (Tommy Lee Jones)--to care about this aging, essentially ineffective witness to the violence of Chigurh--it is in this motel room that we are asked most succinctly to consider and care for Chigurh.  

Theses frames show us the trained gestures of Chigurh, and the way in which they play against his equally ingrained and subtle murderous gestures. Unlike Moss's earlier, messy attempts to clean his wounds at he and Carla Jean's trailer (or, John Rambo's macho suturing of his own wounds in First Blood), Chigurh's ability to tend to himself is not only more competent, but suggests the skill of a former medic. This reading begins with the previous scene of Chigurh's effortless looting of the "Mike Voss" Pharmacy, but becomes deeply revealing through the skill with which he creates an iodine wash bottle, and then sterilizes his tweezers to remove the buckshot from his leg.  

Chigurh then dispenses the lids of the syringe and anesthetic with familiarity, ease, and urgency; the frame holding both this telling gesture and perhaps the most vital element of his discarded costume:  his cowboy boots. Finally, as Chigurh flicks the syringe--again, a  physical action that Bardem assures us is as second nature to him as the flick of a switch--a look comes across Chigurh's face that we have not seen before. What we see in this fleeting moment is the compassion of a healer, an idea that makes Chigurh even more terrifying in the final analysis.

Call it Noir, Western, or Dark Comedy; what gives No Country For Old Men an unprecedented weight in the Coen's filmography is the way in which it emerges, quietly, as a film about men who are the products of Vietnam.

TERRIBLE? or JUST TERRIBLE?: "Enter the Ninja" dir. Menahem Golan, 1981

Aficionados of the Menahem Golan filmography will already be asking "Why Enter the Ninja?"  It's true: with a filmmaking history rife with incredible Terrible movies (and probably even more that are Just Terrible), it's difficult to justify why I would chose this particular film over numerous others for the next entry in this ongoing "side-project" of ECSTATIC.  After all, Golan is the man who brought us Superman IV: The Quest for Peace, Death Wish IV: The Crackdown, and Breakin' II: Electric Boogaloo.  And what of the third in the Ninja flick series that Enter the Ninja began, you ask?  Ninja III: The Domination??  All I can say is that those will have to wait for future "Terrible or Just Terrible" judgement, as well as the inexplicably strange directorial effort that proceeded Enter the Ninja, Golan's 1980 future-set musical The Apple ("the future" being 1994).

So here's my justification: Enter the Ninja is maybe not the most deliciously Terrible movie of Golan's long career (and I do mean long--according to IMBD he'll be bringing us Allan Quartermain and the Jewel of the East in 2013), but it is the genesis of the "Ninja" trilogy, which included Revenge of the Ninja (1983) and the aforementioned Ninja III (1984), and then spawned five films in the American Ninja series that featured Michael Dudikoff (at least in 3 of the entries) playing a role similar to that of Franco Nero in the original.  Yes, this is the one that started the Ninja craze and cinema cycle of the early 80's, a re-tooling of the Ninjas in the late 60's Bond entry You Only Live Twice. Yet, the Ninja craze was seemingly forgotten by the time this era of arsenal-inspiring movies culminated in the appearance of the Rambo knife, circa 1985.  To be certain, if you were around 10 to 13 years old when you saw Enter the Ninja for the first time, you were most likely begging your parents to arm you with deadly ninja throwing stars by Christmas.  

And, the tropes and plot devices used in Enter the Ninja are just clever enough to captivate and surprise your average 10-year old, as with the opening sequence which throws us right into the bloody Ninja action.  Former Django star Franco Nero as Cole (the "White Ninja") hacks and slashes his way through an army of red and black ninjas, ultimately reaching the threshold of the ninja complex, where he beheads the Master.  But, wait!  The scene that follows shows this not to be an actual siege, but the final test of the White Ninja. As the red and black Ninjas (graphically slaughtered only moments before) gather in a ceremony honoring the American with his Ninja-hood, they are followed in by the Master, also unscathed and holding a replica of his own head under his arm(!). After this truly preposterous reveal, and a rather lengthy display of ancient finger-based ritual (think "here's the church, here's the steeple" done by a ninja), we are introduced to the lazy set-up of the film that introduces Cole's former military pal Frank (a convincing "James Caan-on-a-bender" turn by Alex Courtney) and his shotgun slinging wife Mary Ann (Susan George).  George's opening scene in the film is an almost disturbing inversion of her appearance in Sam Peckinah's Straw Dogs only ten years earlier: Cole decides to revisit his best friend by breaching the perimeter of their property (?) only to be greeted by Mary Ann holding a shotgun, which he then takes from her while performing a weird combination of macho disarmament and perv-y groping.  Ultimately, Frank's increasing alcoholism combined with the unceasing allure of Cole's mustache result in Mary Ann making a visit to the White Ninja's bedroom under the cover of night.

From there we enter a plot that revolves entirely around Cole helping Frank and Mary Ann save their plantation from evil property baron Venarius (Christopher George), a beautifully campy entry in a long lineage of gay villains.  Venarius is reminiscent of Javier Bardem in Skyfall, if his hobby was training junior high girls in synchronized swimming.  At one point, after receiving information about how Cole has defeated his men, Venarius can only turn to his half-submerged aquatic cast of young ladies and ask in exasperation: "Are you ready for my supreme creation?"  (Sadly, footage of the finished production does not show up as a post-credits extra).

Venarius also has a penchant for dressing his minions in white suits, a true hallmark of Enter the Ninja (seriously, the white suit budget in this movie might have been larger than the Ninja suit budget).  As the film progresses, Christopher George's performance transforms into a weird variation on Veruca Salt from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, as he continually exclaims "Where's my ninja? I want my ninja!" Venarius eventually transports Cole's nemesis from Japan (martial arts icon Sho Kosugi, whose presence as an actor provides the only connecting thread across the Ninja trilogy), with the finale involving a battle between the White and Black ninja, and good ol' American cultural appropriation as the victor.  Throw in a henchman with a stainless steel hook for a hand, some "wah-wah-wah-waaaaaah" trombone to let the audience know where the funny parts are, and a ridiculously contrived showdown in a Philipino cockfighting arena, and you have the exceptionally Terrible Enter the Ninja.

2012 - Best Discoveries

I won't pretend that 2012 was a particularly sensational year for movies, though the stand-outs were superb.  No matter which year we're talking about, it's usually the films that one sees outside of the relentless "cult of the new release" that stand out the most.  Of course, the conversation about film that has blossomed through the increased number of websites, journals, and blogs dedicated to film in recent years has simultaneously made it easier to engage with film culture, and harder to steer clear of the same group of critically fawned-over films.  Even though many of those films made my "2012 - Best Films" list, it sometimes becomes a challenge for those writing about film to separate the movie from the hype, as it were.  Ultimately, my process is something akin to asking myself a question I would like to re-construct from one of my favorite Little Richard quotes (if memory serves me, from the 1973 documentary Jimi Hendrix):  What "thrilled me right down to my thriller"?

Ok...maybe not the most academic of approaches, but it's the one that feels honest to me.  In any case, the most thrilling films I see in any given year are those that come out of nowhere--perhaps creeping up from some long ago recommendation on the Netflix queue, or laying in wait at the bottom of a cinema care-package from a distant friend.  The "Best Discoveries" list is about those pictures that come at you unexpectedly, regardless of what era they were produced, and can range from classics that it seems everyone has seen except for you, to films it seems no one has seen except for you.  The first on my list fits into the latter category, a black and white gem buried deep in the excellent Val Lewton Horror Collection DVD set, but more resonant for me than the films more commonly invoked (Cat People, I Walked With a Zombie) alongside that legendary producers name:

The 7th Victim (1943), dir. Mark Robson

Greenwich village is the dark destination for innocent Mary Gibson (Kim Hunter) as she searches for her missing sister Jacqueline (Jean Brooks), encountering a strange array of poets, lesbians, and satanists along the way.  An obvious influence on Polanski's Rosemary's Baby gang, the Palladists of The 7th Victim are an eerie group, and must have seemed even more unexpectedly characterized set against the traditional horror of the early 40's.  But, perhaps what I adore most about The 7th Victim is its uncompromisingly grim finale, which you have to see to believe.  The shadowy menace we expect from a Lewton production is present throughout, as with Robson's second Lewton production of 1943, Ghost Ship.  But, where Ghost Ship feels more like an off-kilter genre exercise in bringing horror tropes to a novel setting, The 7th Victim feels simultaneously separate from horror conventions, yet uniquely and completely terrifying.


A Safe Place (1971), dir. Henry Jaglom

Another film that can be found buried in a great box set called "The BBS Story" from Criterion, Henry Jaglom's first feature was created through the influence of improvisational theater, the French New Wave, and the diaries of Anais Nin.  Among the BBS canon, A Safe Place may not be as enduring as Rafelson's Five Easy Pieces or The King of Marvin Gardens (though certainly more enduring than the Nicholson-directed Drive, He Said), and not nearly as iconic as Easy Rider or The Last Picture Show, but still fascinating in the way it differs from those films in its technique and overall impact.  Where Easy Rider popularized "flash" editing as a sort of stylistic choice, the erratic editing in Jaglom's film is way more pervasive, and in fact an inseparable part of the film's make-up, creating a distinctive psychological space for the viewer, rooted by the intimate and uninhibited performance of Tuesday Weld (Noah).  Along with the non-linear editing, the movement of the zoom lens throughout gives the film an undulating, dreamlike quality (not unlike another great portrayal of female characters from the 70's, Robert Altman's 3 Women), enhanced by the constant presence of decorative stars, candle flames and Christmas lights that line the film's careful and inventive framing.  Jaglom is entirely focused on ideas of memory, time and magic throughout the film, and the technique is inextricably intertwined with those ideas, creating a uniquely feminist portrayal that he saw as missing from the larger picture of cinema at that time.  Orson Welles plays a peripheral Magician character in the film, which carries an interesting connection to Welles' 1973 film F for Fake.  Also, as with many of the great BBS pictures of this time, the film features a terrific performance by Jack Nicholson.


Age of Consent (1969), dir. Michael Powell

Powell and Pressburger's 1946 romantic classic A Matter of Life of Death (aka Stairway to Heaven) could just as easily have made this slot; though I've seen many of the British directing duo's always impressive output I somehow only recently caught up with what is commonly regarded as one of their greatest visual triumphs.  But, Powell's solo directing effort (and one of his last), Age of Consent, has stuck with me more, possibly due to the presence of the captivating Helen Mirren, but more likely because of the way it stands apart from those early masterpieces, drawing a portrait of an aging artist at work in a rather isolated location.  In 1960, Michael Powell directed his disturbing mediation on cinema, voyeurism and sexual obsession, Peeping Tom, nearly ending his career due to negative response from critics and censors alike.  In Age of Consent James Mason stands in for Powell as an artist retreating from a world of facile criticism and consumerism, seeking rejuvenation on the shores of Australia's Great Barrier Reef.  The film is not nearly as complete a triumph as many of the early Powell and Pressburger works, or even Peeping Tom; the comedic sub-plot featuring Jack MacGowran is forced at best, and the closing song in ode to Mirren's character Cora is a real eye-roller.  But, the way in which Powell patiently engages with the landscape and the story more than makes up for the film's shortcomings, particularly when it comes to young Cora's sense of discovery (which could have easily come off as simply lecherous).  Where Peeping Tom showed us a violent side to Powell that no one expected, the bigger picture of this great director seems incomplete without the more relaxed, breezy images of Age of Consent.


A Boy and His Dog (1975), dir. L.Q. Jones

L.Q. Jones, a regular ensemble member of the great Peckinpah westerns (The Wild Bunch, The Balllad of Cable Hogue, Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid), did little directing work in his career, yet managed to make one of the darkest and most prescient cult classics of the 1970's, A Boy and His Dog.  Based on the Harlan Ellison novel of the same name, Jones adaptation is a sparse and uncompromising satire.  A young Don Johnson plays Vic, a stereo-typically horny teenager in a rather non-stereo-typical relationship with his dog, educator, and mentor Blood (voiced by Tim McIntire) with whom he communicates telepathically.  Set in 2024 against a desolate post-World War IV landscape, the film spends little time laboring to explain the particulars of it's apocalyptic world, but rather allows them to emerge through the character interaction (as when the factor of illiteracy is introduced as Vic barters a clearly labeled can of "Beets" for admission to a dirty movie, telling the gatekeeper they're "Peaches").  The title of the film (as well as the folk/country theme ditty penned and sung by McIntire) evokes an archetype of the American 1950's, later elaborated on through the perverse and preserved civility of the "downunder" that Vic is lured into.  This underground lair, presided over by Lou Craddock (Jason Robards), is a place where the inhabitants exist in artificial light, wear the clothes of country folk and keep their faces covered in clown-like white paint.  The scenes within the "downunder" occupy most of the final half of the film, and carry the most direct connection to our modern times, evoking the current desires of conservative and extremist separatist groups speculating on some rather extreme versions of the "gated community" in the new millennium.  Perhaps the missing link between 71's The Omega Man and 79's Mad Max, A Boy and His Dog seems more current than either of those films.  And, the final punchline is as dark as it gets.


Putney Swope (Don't Rock the Boat...Sink It!) (1969), dir. Robert Downey (a prince)

A "black" comedy for sure, Robert Downey Sr.'s late 60's skewering of the advertising industry is still relevant satirically and artistically, as well as being laugh-out-loud funny.  The urgency of Swope's production (filmed at night in an experimental advertising branch where Downey was employed at the time) translates to the screen to create a gleefully subversive commentary that still feels risky. Also, the underground production quality gives the film a theatrical feel, at times boldly carrying the torch of the Absurd, which had been seeping into American theater and film throughout the 1960's.  Essentially the story of an advertising agency accidentally electing their only black board member (Swope, played by Arnold Johnson, but later re-voiced by Downey himself) to be their new President, the film is constructed of bits, sketches and satirical advertisements (the only sequences shot in color), but avoids feeling like a tedious collection of bits and sketches.  This achievement is due partly to the film's brief running time, but also the way in which race is complicated through the film's main character.  Rather than simply being a tale of black/white inversion, Swope and his comedic entourage also succumb to their position of power, and, by the end, made up in full Fidel Castro garb complete with iconic cigar, Swope is even in cahoots with the President of the United States (played by the very small actor Pepi Hermine, who would appear in Werner Herzog's Even Dwarfs Started Small the following year).  Released around the same time as Easy Rider, Downey's film feels less stuck in the time of it's making.  Although a few of the references in Swope will fail to play with the same immediacy today, the overall question the film leaves is where this kind of risky, absurd, immediate cinema exists today.


Moneyball (2011), dir. Bennett Miller

I include Moneyball here for those who, like me, may have skipped over it because of suspicions about it being a stereo-typical sports film, which is far from the case.  Bennett, whose first feature was the incredible documentary of the unstoppable Speed Levitch (The Cruise, 1998), does deliver in terms of Moneyball hitting all the high points that make a sports film a sports film.  But, the difference here is how well it works as a finely-tuned character drama, only playing the part of a cookie-cutter, stand-up-and-cheer baseball flick.  Without Zaillian and Sorkin's subtly humorous and deeply human script, and Bennett's ability to capture the fantastic performances of Brad Pitt, Kerris Dorsey, Jonah Hill, and Phillip Seymour Hoffman, the film would fail to transcend the trappings of the genre; instead, it creates an emotional world for Pitt that goes far beyond what we have seen before in pictures like this.  Phillip Seymor Hoffman's physicality alone feels like a treatise on the state of the modern sports industry.


Finally, two quick recommendations for a couple of "buried treasure" documentaries:

Reel Paradise (2005), dir. Steve James

Documenting the final phases of John and Janet Pierson's year-long attempt to bring cinema to the Fiji island of Taveuni, Steve James captures the rather difficult culture clash that happens when a cineaste puts his faith in the flicker to the test.  James is most known for his seminal documentaries Hoop Dreams (1994), Stevie (2002), and The Interrupters (2011).  Though a lesser-known title, Reel Paradise is essential viewing for those interested in movies about movies.


So Wrong They're Right (1995), dir. Russ Forster

One of my favorite 8-track memories is listening to Queen's "The Game" and always having to anticipate when to hit the button in order to here my favorite track (which was always shifting--"Sail Away Sweet Sister" one week, "Don't Try Suicide" the next).  This odd documentary about 8-track culture is a guaranteed nostalgia trip, particularly for music buffs, featuring some charming characters and a great story about the 8-track of Lou Reed's "Metal Machine Music."  So Wrong They're Right is an Other Cinema release, which is worth looking into for their tremendous catalog of documentary oddities and found footage masterpieces.

2012 - Best Films

Better late than never, eh?  In no particular order, a few films I'm still living/grappling/conversing with from 2012.  As is often the trouble with lists such as these, some selections fail to neatly fall into the strict chronology of having been released in 2012, just as some of the selections in my 2011 list (Pina, Into the Abyss, Turin Horse, Anatolia) weren't officially released until later.  Looking back on last year's post, I realize I haven't yet caught up with every film I was anticipating might cause some displacement in the ranks (do we ever really "catch up"?), so I will eventually add to that "Catch Up" list here, as well as include some I've already covered on ECSTATIC in my "2012 - So Far" posting from mid-point last year; most notably, Lynn Ramsay's We Need to Talk About Kevin.  

Ramsay's meditation on motherhood and the repercussions of school violence may not necessarily be at the very top of my list, but it is a remarkable leap forward for the director (currently in the news for being a "no-show" on the production of Jane Got a Gun, slated to feature Natalie Portman and Jude Law), as well as an important part of the continuing evolution of female film roles, fiercely led this year by the dense and risky performance work of Tilda Swinton.  2012 was marked by a unique breadth of work by women (and girls) that has certainly stood out, including the amazing work of Amy Adams in The Master, Anne Marsen in Girl Walk: All Day, Quvenzhane Wallis in Beast of the Southern Wild, and Edith Scob, Kylie Minogue, and Eva Mendes in Holy Motors.  And, I would be remiss not to mention the remarkable women of Television from this year:  Lena Dunham in Girls, Anna Gunn and Betsy Brandt in Breaking Bad, and Laura Dern in Enlightened.  The writing, pacing, and cinematography involved in these shows has taken the continuing TV-evolution of the last decade to a new level of crossbreeding the art of television with some serious film making sensibilities.  Not since the Golden Age of live tele-plays has there been so much potential and life on the small screen.

Girls

Breaking Bad

Enlightened

Speaking of Laura Dern, I also want to make note of her brief but memorable appearance in Paul Thomas Anderson's The Master, the only film for me this year that could appropriately begin this list, and which I assume will be one of the most oft viewed entries for me in years to come.  Without further ado...

The Best of 2012:

The Master directed by Paul Thomas Anderson's

Another remarkable achievement for Anderson, showing a maturity of craft--especially in its complex and subtle resolution--that may even surpass his extraordinary 2007 film There Will Be Blood.  Perhaps the second installment of an "American 20th Century" trilogy, The Master shows us Anderson, Pheonix, and Hoffman at the peak of their craft, transcending reductive readings of the film that may want to contain it as either a Scientology expose or a tale of latent male desire.  Of course, all of those elements are there, but the truth of this masterpiece is that it radiates so much more.

Holy Motors directed by Leos Carax

I was blissfully unaware of the idea or shape of Leos Carax's new film Holy Motors going in, which is exactly how I suggest experiencing this exuberant and madly inspired ode to cinema, performance, and the absurd.  Other films this year contained some superb humor (Cabin in the Woods comes to mind), but few that allowed me to laugh with such a sense of surprise and wonder.  Holy Motors might be written off by some as more ineffective meta-cinematic muscle-flexing (meta-bation, as I've heard it recently coined), or as simply too weird for its own good.  For me, it fell nothing short of a reminder of what I love most about movies: the ability of the medium to surprise, confound, contort, and simply amaze.

The Rest of the Best:

Moonrise Kingdom directed by Wes Anderson

Girl Walk//All Day directed by Jacob Krupnick

We Need To Talk About Kevin directed by Lynn Ramsay

Django Unchained directed by Quentin Tarantino

Cabin in the Woods directed by Joss Whedon

Universal Soldier: Day of Reckoning directed by John Hyams

Beyond the Black Rainbow directed by Panos Cosmatos

Honorable Mentions:  Guy Maddin's Keyhole, David O. Russel's Silver Linings Playbook, Lauren Greenfield's The Queen of Versailles, Colin Trevorrow's Safety Not Guaranteed, David Gelb's Jiro Dreams of Sushi, Giorgos Lanthimos' Alps, Rian Johnson's Looper, Johnathan Demme's Neil Young Journeys, Martin McDonagh's Seven Psychopaths, James Marsh's Project Nim, Alison Klayman's Ai Weiwei: Never Sorry, and Benh Zeitlin's Beasts of the Southern Wild.

The Queen of Versailles

Jiro Dreams of Sushi

Project Nim

Fragments or Greatness in 2012:  Michael Shannon's inspired portrayal of crooked cop Bobby Monday in Premium Rush; Daniel Day Lewis and James Spader's ability to emerge unscathed from the wreckage produced by the head on collision between Tony Kushner and Steven Spielberg that is Lincoln; the early scenes involving Michael Fassbender's "David," and the Noomi Rapace alien abortion scene in Prometheus; Cinematographer Greig Fraser's use of New Orleans, and James Gandolfini's triumphant character work as "Mickey" in Andrew Dominik's unfortunately overstated Killing Them Softly; the insane finale of Peter Berg's Battleship (not to mention the scriptwriter's dedication to actually weaving elements of the board game into the plot!); the wonderfully grotesque bodies of Chris Butler and Sam Fell's Paranorman; the successful bits of the "Creepshow-meets-the-digital-age" short compilation V/H/S; Juliette Binoche's "entrance" in David Cronenberg's Cosmopolis;  the production design of the Total Recall remake; Werner Herzog in Jack Reacher; all of the performances in Killer Joe; Roger Deakin's cinematography in Sam Mendes' Skyfall.

Skyfall

Biggest Disappointments:  John Hillcoat's Lawless; Andrew Dominik's Killing Them Softly; Oliver Stone's Savages; David Wain's Wanderlust; Jay Roach's The Campaign; The Duplass Brothers Jeff, Who Lives at Home; Jason Moore's Pitch Perfect, and Christopher Nolan's The Dark Knight Rises.

Savages

The "Catch Up" List:  Emad Burnat and Guy Davidi's Five Broken Cameras; Matt Piedmont's Casa de mi Padre; Andrew Stanton's John Carter; the Wachowski's Cloud Atlas; Ralph Fiennes' Coriolanus; Joachim Trier's Oslo, August 31; Steven Soderbergh's Magic Mike; Malik Bendjelloul's Searching for Sugarman; Michael Haneke's Amour; Kathryn Bigelow's Zero Dark Thirty.