One of the unique pleasures of the video game is that it is very rare for a sequel to not surpass its predecessor. Consider Knights of the Old Republic II, Halo 3, or, if you haven't sat at a console in a few years, Super Mario Bros. 3. In this case, the predecessor in question is The Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind (Xbox); the sequel, and subject of this review, The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion (Xbox 360).
Oblivion begins by continuing the "reformed criminal" theme from Morrowind for your character. The emperor and his sons have been assassinated, but before the emperor's death he recognizes you from a dream he had, gives you the symbol of his right to rule, tells you he has a bastard son, and sends you off to visit the commander of his guard/Secret Service. Then, of course, linked directly to all this is the business of portals to Oblivion (or, Hell) randomly popping up all across the continent and wreaking their evil havoc. Zoinks.
The improvements over Morrowind are substantial. For one (big) thing, the combat engine is not a hack 'n slash. Blocking is now something you control, you can disarm opponents (and be disarmed), you can dodge blows, etc. This comes courtesy of a neat little system called Skill Mastery. There are five levels of skill mastery - Novice (0-24), Apprentice (25-49), Journeyman (50-74), Master (75-99), and Expert (100) - and bonuses that accompany each. Nice ones, too. Speaking of skills, big improvements in the Alchemy area! Remember how in Morrowind you could make poisons, but all you could do with them was sell them or drink them yourself? Oblivion lets you poison your weapons and arrows with effects like elemental damage, health and magicka drains, and paralysis. Very handy!
In other news, the world of Oblivion feels nice and full because it is nice and full. A medieval setting, it's packed with creatures including bears, wolves, mountain lions, trolls, will-o-the-wisps, and goblins. The game even contains a lone unicorn and, if you set conditions up just right and have a bit of luck, you can watch that unicorn duke it out with a minotaur. I kid you not, it's awesome. Villages, farms, caves, mines, forts, wayside chapels, camps, geographical landmarks, and elven ruins cover the continent, full of plunder and quests alike. Which brings us to the absolute best thing about Oblivion: the quests. I can't say enough about how fun and well-plotted the quests are. The main quest and Mage's Guild quests follow such a realistic progression that they continue four or five quests past where earlier games would've ended it. The Thieves Guild is an enormous step up from Morrowind, and when they call the final quest "The Ultimate Heist", it isn't hyperbole. In addition, most if not all villages etc. have a quest attached, aside from the numerous ones you can pick up across the seven major cities. Oh yeah, and the Daedric quests - many more than in Morrowind; on the downside, as far as I know only four of them aren't ones I feel uncomfortable doing. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. The game takes clear stances on evil and perversion, in particular as pertains to the practice of necromancy. There are necromancer lairs all over the continent, and what's inside them is as disturbing as it should be. In an interesting and well-done twist, you must become the Arch-Mage before you have the option to practice necromancy yourself. However, the options for perverse gameplay are there: you can join the Dark Brotherhood, and most of the Daedric quests are, as I mentioned above, quite unsavoury. But that's just not my style, man.
But the single biggest (in my mind) change over Morrowind is the flavour of the game. Morrowind is a fantasy through and through, from the look of things to the dreamy music to the fact that you're the ultimate hero, and has an overall triumphant tone - your world is pretty black and white, and very few situations don't end well. Oblivion has a distinctly medieval flavour that applies to far more than the art and monsters. This is most evident in the quests. Whether main quests, guild quests, or side quests, a lot of them begin and/or end in tragic, morbid, or bittersweet fashions - few if any victories in Oblivion are not tempered by some form of loss. As well, your character is not the hero of the story. Sure, you're important, and will play a significant role in helping someone else save the world - but, to use a very Canadian analogy, you provide the assist, not the goal. I though this was just great; it was lots of fun, and very refreshing after playing through hero-fests Morrowind, Knights of the Old Republic I & II, and Mass Effect. It also helps that the character you're assisting is a great character.
At any rate, you shouldn't need to read anything to know what a brilliant game this is. The thought and care put into its development is evident just from the title, which contains the numeral "IV" - the game's place in its series - with an equal number of letters framing it on each side. With the Game of the Year edition now going for $30, and at least two hundred hours of gameplay contained therein, it's also the best bang for your entertainment buck, hands down.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
I don't have a snappy title for this one: The Searchers
Continuing my film education, it was time for that other most famous John Ford/John Wayne western: The Searchers (1956).
When Confederate solider Ethan Edwards (Wayne) eventually finds his way back home after the war, his temporary rest is destroyed by a Comanche killing raid on his brother's family's homestead. When he doesn't find the bodies of two of his nieces, Ethan assumes they've been taken to assimilate into the band as wives, and sets out to find them. Traveling with his adopted nephew, Martin, and his eldest niece's fiancee, Ethan spends the next five years in a state of hope and anger as he travels the Southwestern U.S. searching for the girls.
This film is first and foremost a character study, and Ethan is a fascinating character. He's the most interesting racist I've seen to date, because there's much more to him than simply hating Indians. He has a shady and unexplained past, which begs the question of whether or not he's always been racist, or did his attitudes change based on loss, or atrocities witnessed? The film suggests that it is the latter, with strong implications that his primary motivation comes from a desire for revenge rather than racial hatred, as Ethan is no mindless racist. For example, Martin is 1/8 Cherokee, having been taken in by Ethan's brother as a baby when his parents were killed in a raid, and 1/8 is too much Cherokee for Ethan. He doesn't consider Martin family, and won't let Martin call him "uncle" when they ride together. However, he also won't let Martin call him "sir", instead making the younger man address him by his first name, as an equal, demonstrating a recognition of Martin as a worthwhile man that grows in subtle but significant ways throughout the film. Looming over the whole movie, to Martin's increasing concern, is the ultimate question of how Ethan will react to his nieces when he finds them, because they won't have survived without assimilating. Ethan grows without transforming, if that makes sense - it's interesting, realistic, and great moviemaking.
The other driving factor of this film is the exploration of what happens when racism spawns actions that spawn revenge, and grow to combine the two. For example, the war chief who took Ethan's nieces during a raid that was probably directly caused by being a victim of Manifest Destiny is shown to be a racist himself - but it is suggested that his primary motivation for his actions has, like Ethan, become revenge. When Ethan finally meets the chief, he is shown a scalp collection that the chief explains was taken in revenge for the murder of his sons...but the number of scalps outnumbers the number of sons by more than double. John Ford, who gave many interviews about his belief and anger that the Native American people were victims of a genocide justified by racism, has been accused of being racist himself. I'd give those accusations about as much weight as I do the accusations that Steven Spielberg is anti-Semitic for making Munich, or Spike Lee's very public self-embarassment of calling Clint Eastwood racist for making a biopic of trumpet great Charlie "Bird" Parker. There's really nothing to say in response to something so baseless. I guess I watched the bootleg, non-racist version of The Searchers.
The only thing that distracted me in a negative way during this film was the handful of outdoor scenes shot on a soundstage, back in the day when such soundstages were pretty tacky things (think original Star Trek). This rankles only because the majority of the film is shot on location in the Monument Valley area, a natural wonder that can be best described as "epic". And, you know, because soundstages are so amazing now that you'd never guess they were soundstages, like the jungle on Lost which stopped being a location shoot after the first season. It's a trifle. It's a nitpick. It really has no bearing on the film as a whole. So I guess what I'm trying to say is, I have no complaint with this picture. Wierd, huh?
With a thoughtful look at a tough and contentious issue, fantastic performances, and some nice humour from Ethan's catchphrase and the Southern dandy who moves in on Martin's girl while he's away, The Searchers is a low-action, high-interest western that's well worth your time.
When Confederate solider Ethan Edwards (Wayne) eventually finds his way back home after the war, his temporary rest is destroyed by a Comanche killing raid on his brother's family's homestead. When he doesn't find the bodies of two of his nieces, Ethan assumes they've been taken to assimilate into the band as wives, and sets out to find them. Traveling with his adopted nephew, Martin, and his eldest niece's fiancee, Ethan spends the next five years in a state of hope and anger as he travels the Southwestern U.S. searching for the girls.
This film is first and foremost a character study, and Ethan is a fascinating character. He's the most interesting racist I've seen to date, because there's much more to him than simply hating Indians. He has a shady and unexplained past, which begs the question of whether or not he's always been racist, or did his attitudes change based on loss, or atrocities witnessed? The film suggests that it is the latter, with strong implications that his primary motivation comes from a desire for revenge rather than racial hatred, as Ethan is no mindless racist. For example, Martin is 1/8 Cherokee, having been taken in by Ethan's brother as a baby when his parents were killed in a raid, and 1/8 is too much Cherokee for Ethan. He doesn't consider Martin family, and won't let Martin call him "uncle" when they ride together. However, he also won't let Martin call him "sir", instead making the younger man address him by his first name, as an equal, demonstrating a recognition of Martin as a worthwhile man that grows in subtle but significant ways throughout the film. Looming over the whole movie, to Martin's increasing concern, is the ultimate question of how Ethan will react to his nieces when he finds them, because they won't have survived without assimilating. Ethan grows without transforming, if that makes sense - it's interesting, realistic, and great moviemaking.
The other driving factor of this film is the exploration of what happens when racism spawns actions that spawn revenge, and grow to combine the two. For example, the war chief who took Ethan's nieces during a raid that was probably directly caused by being a victim of Manifest Destiny is shown to be a racist himself - but it is suggested that his primary motivation for his actions has, like Ethan, become revenge. When Ethan finally meets the chief, he is shown a scalp collection that the chief explains was taken in revenge for the murder of his sons...but the number of scalps outnumbers the number of sons by more than double. John Ford, who gave many interviews about his belief and anger that the Native American people were victims of a genocide justified by racism, has been accused of being racist himself. I'd give those accusations about as much weight as I do the accusations that Steven Spielberg is anti-Semitic for making Munich, or Spike Lee's very public self-embarassment of calling Clint Eastwood racist for making a biopic of trumpet great Charlie "Bird" Parker. There's really nothing to say in response to something so baseless. I guess I watched the bootleg, non-racist version of The Searchers.
The only thing that distracted me in a negative way during this film was the handful of outdoor scenes shot on a soundstage, back in the day when such soundstages were pretty tacky things (think original Star Trek). This rankles only because the majority of the film is shot on location in the Monument Valley area, a natural wonder that can be best described as "epic". And, you know, because soundstages are so amazing now that you'd never guess they were soundstages, like the jungle on Lost which stopped being a location shoot after the first season. It's a trifle. It's a nitpick. It really has no bearing on the film as a whole. So I guess what I'm trying to say is, I have no complaint with this picture. Wierd, huh?
With a thoughtful look at a tough and contentious issue, fantastic performances, and some nice humour from Ethan's catchphrase and the Southern dandy who moves in on Martin's girl while he's away, The Searchers is a low-action, high-interest western that's well worth your time.
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Forbidden Kingdom
First, Jet Li said Fearless was his last film. Then, well...let's just say, I'm glad he's still on-screen. :D Our most recent Jet sighting? His quasi-legendary "at last!" pairing with the West's other favourite martial arts film icon, Jackie Chan, in last year's The Forbidden Kingdom.
Written and directed by Americans, those Americans are perhaps the first to make a wide-release film who both love and understand not only Chinese folklore, but Hong Kong film. A fairy tale, The Forbidden Kingdom is the story of an American teenager (Sky High's Michael Angarano, who looks like Christian Bale circa Newsies) who loves in the most geeky fanboy way the classic martial arts films he buys from an old man in Chinatown. This being a fairy tale, the old man's shop has the requisite Mysterious Back Room full of Cool and Mysterious Artifacts, one of these being a staff whose owner the old man's father said would come to get it one day. When a case of bullying gone extreme results in the old man's shooting, Jason's subsequent flight from the bullies results in his falling off a roof and pulling a Conneticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court - in other words, he wakes up in feudal China, mysterious staff in hand. Saved from a village raid by a drunken vagrant (Jackie Chan), Jason learns the story of the battle between the Jade Warlord and the Monkey King (Jet Li), to whom the staff belongs. Cue the main quest, as the stranger (Jason), the drunk (Lu), and accidental travelling companions vengeful orphan Sparrow and the Silent Monk (also Jet Li) set out to, in varying degrees of character involvement, return the Monkey King's staff and end his imprisonment, return back to the future, and assassinate the Jade Warlord...all while trying to keep ahead of the Warlord's bounty hunter, asian folklore stalwart The Bride With The White Hair.
This is a great film. A solid fairy tale, an excellent fusion film that gets away with retaining some very Hong Kong elements (a particular pee joke springs to mind), featuring fights by master choreographer Woo-ping Yuen, and, oh yeah, Jet Li and Jackie Chan, The Forbidden Kingdom is even fun for the whole family (I assume here, I have no children myself). When asked during the press tour why they waited so long to make a film together, the response was that the right script hadn't come along yet. I can only imagine the glut of scripts that must have been written wherein the whole film, and point of it, was simply that Jet Li and Jackie Chan were in the same movie. They are key players in The Forbidden Kingdom, but it's not about them. It's a film that they're part of, and that's why it works, kind of like how Ben Stiller was great in Mystery Men and The Royal Tennenbaums, but when he's in "Ben Stiller films" things get pretty mediocre. There was some disappointment surrounding the release of this film, and I suspect that was because it's not hardcore. General critics and audiences seem to know how to respond to good kid's films, and to good hard action films, but family films seem to leave many stumped. In fairness, the majority of family films suck. But that's not the point I'm trying to make here.
In other notes, The makeup is brilliant, particularly for The Bride, the sets are very nice, and there's a great sense of overall humour, like having Chan use Michael Angarano as a weapon, or setting the classic slo-mo "enemies crashing through a bar window" shot in a Chinese teahouse whose windows are paper. However, also being very Hong Kong, the film has a character's tragic failure and death that just wouldn't be done in an all-American production, and fights were just as short as they should be. This will be the film I recommend to ease in people who've never seen a Hong Kong film before.
And, of course, Jet Li and Jackie Chan! Seasoned artists, they're both in fine acting form here, especially formally trained Li, who can say five minutes worth of dialogue with a single shift of expression, and is delightful as the Monkey King. And, of course, there's The Fight. Word on the street is a lot of people were disappointed by the Chan/Li fight. The only thing I can say in response to anyone who found this fight disappointing or not that good is that I'm not sure they know what a good fight is supposed to look like. I suppose that over here, a "good" or "mind-blowing" fight typically involves massive amounts of property damage (see: The Matrix, or the Uma Thurman/Daryl Hannah smackdown from Kill Bill vol. 2), but that's just not the way of Kung Fu, whose property damage tends to be far more restrained (see: the property damage in The Forbidden Kingdom). The Chan/Li fight was incredibly satisfying, and only showed their ages in that there were more cuts than they needed fifteen years ago.
Of course, it's not without its weak points. There's one too many "I don't know if I can do this, what if I screw up?" chats from Jason, the score is a blatant combination of Klaus Badelt's work for the first Pirates of the Carribbean and James Newton Howard's Batman Begins, and you could probably make a very lethal drinking game out of the number of shots that are directly cribbed from all three Lord of the Rings films. And yet, there's a certain level to which all those amusing rip-offs work, because the whole film is an homage film, and we all know that the dividing line between rip-off and homage is quality - and this film is good.
If you're burning for an awesome martial arts film, you should probably rent Once Upon a Time In China I or II, or Legend of Drunken Master, or Kill Bill vol. II. If you're burning for a good fairy tale in which the martial arts are awesome but not the focus, I highly recommend The Forbidden Kingdom.
Written and directed by Americans, those Americans are perhaps the first to make a wide-release film who both love and understand not only Chinese folklore, but Hong Kong film. A fairy tale, The Forbidden Kingdom is the story of an American teenager (Sky High's Michael Angarano, who looks like Christian Bale circa Newsies) who loves in the most geeky fanboy way the classic martial arts films he buys from an old man in Chinatown. This being a fairy tale, the old man's shop has the requisite Mysterious Back Room full of Cool and Mysterious Artifacts, one of these being a staff whose owner the old man's father said would come to get it one day. When a case of bullying gone extreme results in the old man's shooting, Jason's subsequent flight from the bullies results in his falling off a roof and pulling a Conneticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court - in other words, he wakes up in feudal China, mysterious staff in hand. Saved from a village raid by a drunken vagrant (Jackie Chan), Jason learns the story of the battle between the Jade Warlord and the Monkey King (Jet Li), to whom the staff belongs. Cue the main quest, as the stranger (Jason), the drunk (Lu), and accidental travelling companions vengeful orphan Sparrow and the Silent Monk (also Jet Li) set out to, in varying degrees of character involvement, return the Monkey King's staff and end his imprisonment, return back to the future, and assassinate the Jade Warlord...all while trying to keep ahead of the Warlord's bounty hunter, asian folklore stalwart The Bride With The White Hair.
This is a great film. A solid fairy tale, an excellent fusion film that gets away with retaining some very Hong Kong elements (a particular pee joke springs to mind), featuring fights by master choreographer Woo-ping Yuen, and, oh yeah, Jet Li and Jackie Chan, The Forbidden Kingdom is even fun for the whole family (I assume here, I have no children myself). When asked during the press tour why they waited so long to make a film together, the response was that the right script hadn't come along yet. I can only imagine the glut of scripts that must have been written wherein the whole film, and point of it, was simply that Jet Li and Jackie Chan were in the same movie. They are key players in The Forbidden Kingdom, but it's not about them. It's a film that they're part of, and that's why it works, kind of like how Ben Stiller was great in Mystery Men and The Royal Tennenbaums, but when he's in "Ben Stiller films" things get pretty mediocre. There was some disappointment surrounding the release of this film, and I suspect that was because it's not hardcore. General critics and audiences seem to know how to respond to good kid's films, and to good hard action films, but family films seem to leave many stumped. In fairness, the majority of family films suck. But that's not the point I'm trying to make here.
In other notes, The makeup is brilliant, particularly for The Bride, the sets are very nice, and there's a great sense of overall humour, like having Chan use Michael Angarano as a weapon, or setting the classic slo-mo "enemies crashing through a bar window" shot in a Chinese teahouse whose windows are paper. However, also being very Hong Kong, the film has a character's tragic failure and death that just wouldn't be done in an all-American production, and fights were just as short as they should be. This will be the film I recommend to ease in people who've never seen a Hong Kong film before.
And, of course, Jet Li and Jackie Chan! Seasoned artists, they're both in fine acting form here, especially formally trained Li, who can say five minutes worth of dialogue with a single shift of expression, and is delightful as the Monkey King. And, of course, there's The Fight. Word on the street is a lot of people were disappointed by the Chan/Li fight. The only thing I can say in response to anyone who found this fight disappointing or not that good is that I'm not sure they know what a good fight is supposed to look like. I suppose that over here, a "good" or "mind-blowing" fight typically involves massive amounts of property damage (see: The Matrix, or the Uma Thurman/Daryl Hannah smackdown from Kill Bill vol. 2), but that's just not the way of Kung Fu, whose property damage tends to be far more restrained (see: the property damage in The Forbidden Kingdom). The Chan/Li fight was incredibly satisfying, and only showed their ages in that there were more cuts than they needed fifteen years ago.
Of course, it's not without its weak points. There's one too many "I don't know if I can do this, what if I screw up?" chats from Jason, the score is a blatant combination of Klaus Badelt's work for the first Pirates of the Carribbean and James Newton Howard's Batman Begins, and you could probably make a very lethal drinking game out of the number of shots that are directly cribbed from all three Lord of the Rings films. And yet, there's a certain level to which all those amusing rip-offs work, because the whole film is an homage film, and we all know that the dividing line between rip-off and homage is quality - and this film is good.
If you're burning for an awesome martial arts film, you should probably rent Once Upon a Time In China I or II, or Legend of Drunken Master, or Kill Bill vol. II. If you're burning for a good fairy tale in which the martial arts are awesome but not the focus, I highly recommend The Forbidden Kingdom.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Gojira And The Flood Take Manhattan: Cloverfield
Gojira, Ishiro Honda's 1954 landmark film about the A-bomb, has aged remarkably well. Brought to the West (and re-edited, and adding an American character) as Godzilla, it spawned as many thrills as it did sequels, on both sides of the pond. It's been adapted more times than is strictly necessary (Matthew Broderick, I'm looking at you!), but I don't believe it's ever been successfully updated or translated. Until now.
Cloverfield (2008) is a simple and familiar story: a group of New York twentysomethings, while throwing a going-away party, get caught in the middle of a monster attack. Of course, they can't evacuate right off the bat, as one of their number needs rescue on the other side of town. Cue the quest! Now, when telling simple and familiar stories, one of two things usually happens: it either plays out as a lazy, boring mess, because the filmmakers didn't bother going past "simple" and "familiar" or, the filmmakers use the opportunity to build off those foundations into something insightful and even a little bit new. I'm going to go way against the flow here and say that Cloverfield, under the direction of Matt Reeves and with a screenplay from Drew Goddard, falls into the latter category.
"But Elly! Isn't Cloverfield just a rip-off of The Blair Witch Project, with stupid characters to boot?" No, no it's not.
Let's talk plot, characters, and the nature of translation. The most common professional criticism I read regarding Cloverfield was that the characters were so vapid, vacuous, unlikeable, and unrealistic that no one cared if they lived or died. Rolling Stone went so far as to whine, "where's Juno when you need her?" The denizens of Cloverfield consist of Rob, the subject of the going away party; his brother, Jason, his best friend, Hud (also the cameraman), Jason's girl, Lily, and Lily's pal/Hud's love interest Marlena. Are they vapid? The first twenty minutes or so of the 84-minute picture is Rob's going away party, wherein slacker dude Hud is charged with filming well-wishes for Rob to watch at his new job overseas. What starts out as well-wishes quickly turns into an excited gossip-fest when Hud accidentally learns that Rob has slept with friend Beth, and this news - and the reaction(s) to and fall-out from it - take precedence over everything else. Sex gossip, vapid? Absolutely! In the slightest bit unrealistic? Of course not. Rob, Jason, Lily, Hud, and Marlena are people everyone this age knows. They're also dead-on archetypes of my generation. Rob is the young professional, not an over-achiever but just someone who's willing to work hard, and comes across as a bit alienated from his friends for it. We never learn what scruffy Jason does for a living, but it's probably safe to assume that he's just that: scruffy, the achiever's brother who sees no need to over-exert himself as Mom already has someone to be proud of. Lily is a bit glamorous, likes to be in charge and a bit condescending, and comes off as that girl in high school who was so cool that someone in every clique thought she was their friend. Hud is the consummate contemporary "go with the flow" guy, who probably goes to LebowskiFest (or at least owns a "little achievers" shirt) and can be safely described as immature, one rail short of a total trainwreck - he probably idolizes Kevin Smith. And Marlena just about steals the show as the nihilistic hipster who's too cool for everything. None of these people are especially profound, but neither are they empty. They're just normal, but not the cool, attractive sort of normal. The characters of Cloverfield are the everymen of this generation, and we're not exactly used to seeing "everymen" films. I think a lot of the critical hate for them derived from a whole lot of self-denial. No one likes to look in a mirror and see an inane reflection that could use some serious improvement. On top of that, for even more realism points, the characters act like such characters would reasonably act. When my husband expressed his disdain that they were at one point in a room full of weapons - pipes, wrenches, etc. - and didn't take any, I realised that what makes a character plausible or not isn't what they should logically do, but what the film has told us these characters would do. The cast of Cloverfield is nothing if not consistent - no out-of-character smarts or epiphanies. Some reviews commented in response to their actions that the characters had clearly never watched a horror film, to which I would reply, have you ever heard cool people seriously discussing and pondering at legnth what they would do in the event of a monster/zombie/alien attack? Because I'd have to believe these characters were capable of those kinds of chats in order to believe that they'd actually do things like make a plan of attack. As it is, I thought the characters and cast were great, and went a long way to making the film what it is.
Which raises the other critical question: what is it? Some say it's a tacky 9-11 catharsis. Some say it's a bad Blair Witch rip-off. Some say it's nothing but a gimmick. Some, like the New York Times, say it's just a stupid, useless film, period. When I said it's, to my knowledge, the only translation of Gojira to date, let's clear up what I mean by "translation". The Magnificent Seven is a translation of Seven Samurai, or Shall We Dance? is a translation of Shall We Dansu?. In both cases, a quintessentially Japanese story was transformed into something sensible to, and reflective of, the U.S.A. Like Gojira, Cloverfield is about the most pressing, imminent, widespread, and experientially justified fear of its time and place. Unlike Gojira, we have no idea who or what spawned the monster. This is well in step with the fears and realities of terrorism. The Middle East is so complex, and so many claim credit for the same crimes, and so few people trust government intelligence, that it seems we can rarely, if ever, say with certainty who was responsible for what attacks. Learning where the monster came from worked in the time and place context of Gojira; maintaining a mystery worked very well, and made a lot of sense, for Cloverfield.
What else is Cloverfield? A solid horror, I say. Yes, it builds off a lot of existing works, but I'm not so ignorant as to believe that every story should or can be "new". It's not about what you build off, but how you build it. Cloverfield has everything from Gojira (Rob is leaving for his new job in...Japan!), The Planet of the Apes (Statue of Liberty!), YouTube/the CNN iReport, Alien, and the baby monster-spawn (and the first clip of soldiers blasting them with assault rifles) reminded me stylistically and aurally of the Flood head-crabs from Halo (though my husband says they were more akin to the critters from Pitch Black, which I haven't seen...but is in many circles considered a benchmark sci-fi/horror of my generation).
A note on the monster: no, it's not the scariest thing since the titular stars of Alien or The Thing. At first, I thought director Reeves had made the classic blunder of revealing too much monster. I call this a blunder because the old saw about our imagination being more terrifying than reality is generally true, and I believe that's why so many movie monsters turn out to be disappointing. But in this instance, I wonder if Cloverfield's reveal wasn't in fact carefully considered. When we finally get a (very) good look at the monster, it's in clear, early-morning light, with nothing behind it but sky. No dark, no rain, no blue, green, or grey filters. This makes me inclined to think it wasn't a classic blunder, but a commentary on the nature of our unseen enemy. Everyone remembers how pathetic Saddam Hussein looked during his incarceration and trial: once a mysterious, untouchable, purveyor of terror and death, we saw him assert his innocence to the court and the world as a rumpled, blustering, Dorito-eating joke. If this is the direction Reeves and co. were going with their monster reveal, then it's also quite significant that a character is killed by the monster right after seeing it clearly. It's bad enough to be horribly mutilated; it's just humiliating to be horribly mutilated by something with puffy red ears - perhaps this is part of the point.
Of course, to enjoy a film like Cloverfield, you need to watch it for what it is, and yes, part of what it is is widely considered to be a gimmick, and you need to roll with that and watch it as part of the film - but not the whole. The problem occurs when you don't watch a film past its gimmick. This obsession has burned a lot of great or pretty good movies. The first Blair Witch remains one of the most solid horrors I've ever seen, but when left Sundance for wide distribution, the buzz choking the entertainment pages wasn't about it being a pretty decent and innovative film, but about how it made people puke in the theater. A lot of people don't see the first Matrix as a strong sci-fi because they're too busy seeing it as nothing but the sum of its slo-mo FX. On the small screen, Michael Imperioli is understandably frustrated because the buzz surrounding his first-rate performance on Life on Mars isn't about said performance, but about his big 70's hair and mustache. Of course, gimmicks can work in reverse: Napoleon Dynamite is a very average film composed entirely of gimmicks, and a lot of people think it's the greatest thing since Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Classic (for my generation) action films like Back to the Future, Speed and Air Force One are 110% gimmick, and everyone accepts that and loves them for what they are. If the film is good enough, people don't even notice the gimmicks - I heard not a peep about the exclusive use of hand-held in the extraordinary Once, and those who have seen Memento speak of it as an artistic masterpiece.
Question: When is a gimmick not a gimmick? Why wasn't Spielberg's hand-held Battle of Normandy in Saving Private Ryan called out as a gimmick? Could it have been the overall film quality, herein referred to as the Once factor? Colour film stock, realtime, and 3D animation were all one gimmicks - what made them into normal film practice? Will hand-held ever escape the gimmick label? Discuss.
Another thing that can burn a good or decent film: being relased too close to a similar, better film, in this case, Korea's The Host. Cloverfield is a very good film; unfortunately for it, The Host is excellent, and superior in almost every way. I've heard from many reliable sources that The Illusionist sucks. Maybe it does, I don't know, or maybe it "sucks" because it came out at the same time as The Prestige, which is superior to almost every film made in the last fifteen to twenty years, and has similar subject matter. Only time (and actually watching The Illusionist) will tell.
This is a hard film to review, because there really is a lot to it. I think it's a near-perfect picture of my generation and the times we live in. I think it's a fantastically successful translation of Gojira. I think it's a very decent horror. If you're willing to actually watch it, Cloverfield is an interesting picture with a lot going on in it, and worth the 84 minutes.
Cloverfield (2008) is a simple and familiar story: a group of New York twentysomethings, while throwing a going-away party, get caught in the middle of a monster attack. Of course, they can't evacuate right off the bat, as one of their number needs rescue on the other side of town. Cue the quest! Now, when telling simple and familiar stories, one of two things usually happens: it either plays out as a lazy, boring mess, because the filmmakers didn't bother going past "simple" and "familiar" or, the filmmakers use the opportunity to build off those foundations into something insightful and even a little bit new. I'm going to go way against the flow here and say that Cloverfield, under the direction of Matt Reeves and with a screenplay from Drew Goddard, falls into the latter category.
"But Elly! Isn't Cloverfield just a rip-off of The Blair Witch Project, with stupid characters to boot?" No, no it's not.
Let's talk plot, characters, and the nature of translation. The most common professional criticism I read regarding Cloverfield was that the characters were so vapid, vacuous, unlikeable, and unrealistic that no one cared if they lived or died. Rolling Stone went so far as to whine, "where's Juno when you need her?" The denizens of Cloverfield consist of Rob, the subject of the going away party; his brother, Jason, his best friend, Hud (also the cameraman), Jason's girl, Lily, and Lily's pal/Hud's love interest Marlena. Are they vapid? The first twenty minutes or so of the 84-minute picture is Rob's going away party, wherein slacker dude Hud is charged with filming well-wishes for Rob to watch at his new job overseas. What starts out as well-wishes quickly turns into an excited gossip-fest when Hud accidentally learns that Rob has slept with friend Beth, and this news - and the reaction(s) to and fall-out from it - take precedence over everything else. Sex gossip, vapid? Absolutely! In the slightest bit unrealistic? Of course not. Rob, Jason, Lily, Hud, and Marlena are people everyone this age knows. They're also dead-on archetypes of my generation. Rob is the young professional, not an over-achiever but just someone who's willing to work hard, and comes across as a bit alienated from his friends for it. We never learn what scruffy Jason does for a living, but it's probably safe to assume that he's just that: scruffy, the achiever's brother who sees no need to over-exert himself as Mom already has someone to be proud of. Lily is a bit glamorous, likes to be in charge and a bit condescending, and comes off as that girl in high school who was so cool that someone in every clique thought she was their friend. Hud is the consummate contemporary "go with the flow" guy, who probably goes to LebowskiFest (or at least owns a "little achievers" shirt) and can be safely described as immature, one rail short of a total trainwreck - he probably idolizes Kevin Smith. And Marlena just about steals the show as the nihilistic hipster who's too cool for everything. None of these people are especially profound, but neither are they empty. They're just normal, but not the cool, attractive sort of normal. The characters of Cloverfield are the everymen of this generation, and we're not exactly used to seeing "everymen" films. I think a lot of the critical hate for them derived from a whole lot of self-denial. No one likes to look in a mirror and see an inane reflection that could use some serious improvement. On top of that, for even more realism points, the characters act like such characters would reasonably act. When my husband expressed his disdain that they were at one point in a room full of weapons - pipes, wrenches, etc. - and didn't take any, I realised that what makes a character plausible or not isn't what they should logically do, but what the film has told us these characters would do. The cast of Cloverfield is nothing if not consistent - no out-of-character smarts or epiphanies. Some reviews commented in response to their actions that the characters had clearly never watched a horror film, to which I would reply, have you ever heard cool people seriously discussing and pondering at legnth what they would do in the event of a monster/zombie/alien attack? Because I'd have to believe these characters were capable of those kinds of chats in order to believe that they'd actually do things like make a plan of attack. As it is, I thought the characters and cast were great, and went a long way to making the film what it is.
Which raises the other critical question: what is it? Some say it's a tacky 9-11 catharsis. Some say it's a bad Blair Witch rip-off. Some say it's nothing but a gimmick. Some, like the New York Times, say it's just a stupid, useless film, period. When I said it's, to my knowledge, the only translation of Gojira to date, let's clear up what I mean by "translation". The Magnificent Seven is a translation of Seven Samurai, or Shall We Dance? is a translation of Shall We Dansu?. In both cases, a quintessentially Japanese story was transformed into something sensible to, and reflective of, the U.S.A. Like Gojira, Cloverfield is about the most pressing, imminent, widespread, and experientially justified fear of its time and place. Unlike Gojira, we have no idea who or what spawned the monster. This is well in step with the fears and realities of terrorism. The Middle East is so complex, and so many claim credit for the same crimes, and so few people trust government intelligence, that it seems we can rarely, if ever, say with certainty who was responsible for what attacks. Learning where the monster came from worked in the time and place context of Gojira; maintaining a mystery worked very well, and made a lot of sense, for Cloverfield.
What else is Cloverfield? A solid horror, I say. Yes, it builds off a lot of existing works, but I'm not so ignorant as to believe that every story should or can be "new". It's not about what you build off, but how you build it. Cloverfield has everything from Gojira (Rob is leaving for his new job in...Japan!), The Planet of the Apes (Statue of Liberty!), YouTube/the CNN iReport, Alien, and the baby monster-spawn (and the first clip of soldiers blasting them with assault rifles) reminded me stylistically and aurally of the Flood head-crabs from Halo (though my husband says they were more akin to the critters from Pitch Black, which I haven't seen...but is in many circles considered a benchmark sci-fi/horror of my generation).
A note on the monster: no, it's not the scariest thing since the titular stars of Alien or The Thing. At first, I thought director Reeves had made the classic blunder of revealing too much monster. I call this a blunder because the old saw about our imagination being more terrifying than reality is generally true, and I believe that's why so many movie monsters turn out to be disappointing. But in this instance, I wonder if Cloverfield's reveal wasn't in fact carefully considered. When we finally get a (very) good look at the monster, it's in clear, early-morning light, with nothing behind it but sky. No dark, no rain, no blue, green, or grey filters. This makes me inclined to think it wasn't a classic blunder, but a commentary on the nature of our unseen enemy. Everyone remembers how pathetic Saddam Hussein looked during his incarceration and trial: once a mysterious, untouchable, purveyor of terror and death, we saw him assert his innocence to the court and the world as a rumpled, blustering, Dorito-eating joke. If this is the direction Reeves and co. were going with their monster reveal, then it's also quite significant that a character is killed by the monster right after seeing it clearly. It's bad enough to be horribly mutilated; it's just humiliating to be horribly mutilated by something with puffy red ears - perhaps this is part of the point.
Of course, to enjoy a film like Cloverfield, you need to watch it for what it is, and yes, part of what it is is widely considered to be a gimmick, and you need to roll with that and watch it as part of the film - but not the whole. The problem occurs when you don't watch a film past its gimmick. This obsession has burned a lot of great or pretty good movies. The first Blair Witch remains one of the most solid horrors I've ever seen, but when left Sundance for wide distribution, the buzz choking the entertainment pages wasn't about it being a pretty decent and innovative film, but about how it made people puke in the theater. A lot of people don't see the first Matrix as a strong sci-fi because they're too busy seeing it as nothing but the sum of its slo-mo FX. On the small screen, Michael Imperioli is understandably frustrated because the buzz surrounding his first-rate performance on Life on Mars isn't about said performance, but about his big 70's hair and mustache. Of course, gimmicks can work in reverse: Napoleon Dynamite is a very average film composed entirely of gimmicks, and a lot of people think it's the greatest thing since Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Classic (for my generation) action films like Back to the Future, Speed and Air Force One are 110% gimmick, and everyone accepts that and loves them for what they are. If the film is good enough, people don't even notice the gimmicks - I heard not a peep about the exclusive use of hand-held in the extraordinary Once, and those who have seen Memento speak of it as an artistic masterpiece.
Question: When is a gimmick not a gimmick? Why wasn't Spielberg's hand-held Battle of Normandy in Saving Private Ryan called out as a gimmick? Could it have been the overall film quality, herein referred to as the Once factor? Colour film stock, realtime, and 3D animation were all one gimmicks - what made them into normal film practice? Will hand-held ever escape the gimmick label? Discuss.
Another thing that can burn a good or decent film: being relased too close to a similar, better film, in this case, Korea's The Host. Cloverfield is a very good film; unfortunately for it, The Host is excellent, and superior in almost every way. I've heard from many reliable sources that The Illusionist sucks. Maybe it does, I don't know, or maybe it "sucks" because it came out at the same time as The Prestige, which is superior to almost every film made in the last fifteen to twenty years, and has similar subject matter. Only time (and actually watching The Illusionist) will tell.
This is a hard film to review, because there really is a lot to it. I think it's a near-perfect picture of my generation and the times we live in. I think it's a fantastically successful translation of Gojira. I think it's a very decent horror. If you're willing to actually watch it, Cloverfield is an interesting picture with a lot going on in it, and worth the 84 minutes.
Mr. Ranse Goes to Washington
Every good child of the Information Age needs a good media-related scandal, so here's mine: I've never seen a John Ford western.
(Well, I have vague memories from my pre-school days of being in the same room as someone who was watching My Darling Clementine, but I don't need to tell you that doesn't count.)
One good scandal deserves another: I've never seen a John Wayne western. I've seen The Green Berets, and North to Alaska - I could sing you the theme song from the latter - but have never seen him do what he's best remembered for.
So I figured, why not do something about that?
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962) is a story of evil, ignorance, and the perpetual conflict between theory and practice. When freshly-barred lawyer Ransome Stoddard (James Stewart) is beaten and left for dead by bandits after his stagecoach is held up, he wakes up in the tiny town of Shinbone to learn that the locals know exactly who the perpetrator was - and that none of them plan to do a thing about it. Liberty (Lee Marvin) is one of those untouchable types, akin to a contemporary mob boss - his involvement in most of his crimes is hard to legally prove, and everyone who knows of him is terrified of what he'll do should they try to take him down or simply stand up to his bullying. Liberty Valance is so scary that he has Lee Van Cleef as a lackey. The local sherrif is a drunk, simpering joke whose main goals are mooching and self-preservation. Rancher Tom Doniphon (Wayne), who found Ranse in the desert, walks a strange line between wisdom and apathy (more on that below), and the townsfolk, including immigrant cafe owners Peter and Nora and their waitress, Hallie (Vera Miles), take the relatively safe stance of not rocking the boat. Unfortunately, Ranse is all about rocking the boat. Full of big ideas about law and order and the way things should be, and taking a shine to Hallie, he starts a school and begins educating the locals on rights, freedoms, and law, all the while trying to find a way to catch Liberty. Tom believes in escalation, and things certainly start to escalate after the titular shooting...but not in the obvious way.
There are some very interesting stories contained in this film. The most interesting, and significant, is the conflict between Ransome and Tom, and what it begets. Ranse is idealism and possibilities; Tom is pragmatism and known facts. Ranse is the new way of life in the States, full of order, and governance, and systems; Tom is the old way, full of a very different concept of order, governance, and systems. Both men are justified in their beliefs. Ranse isn't some ridiculous, flight-of-fancy idealist - the theories he's bringing to Shinbone are ones he's seen put into successful practice in the major cities of the North. And Tom is no thoughtless hardhead - he's lived in the desert his entire life, and knows how life works there, and what it takes to survive. The conflict comes not because the men are opposites, but because both have a complete lack of respect for the other's ideas and way of life, and the result of this disrespect is, ultimately, the catalyst of the film, and its consequences are disastrous. There's also a fascinating parallel between Liberty and Tom. Liberty Valance is a penultimate bully; his tools are terror, control, and an unwavering self-confidence. Tom is also a bully, his tools being contempt, dismissal, and arrogance. He and Ranse are interested in the same girl, but the audience isn't given a reason to root for Tom in this, as we see him employing those tools while hitting on Hallie.
Other great points of The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance include the filming, direction, and costume design. Though made in the early sixties, when colour film had been a U.S. stable for over a decade, it was shot in black and white. Speculated reasons for this include budget issues, and the fact that Stewart and Wayne were supposed to be playing characters thirty years younger than they were, and how they would have looked even more implausible in colour. Whatever the case, using black and white film stock didn't mean they used cheap old stock. It's the richest, most beautiful black and white film I've ever seen, the only one I know that really looks right. Just gorgeous. On the subject of direction, it's evident that John Ford was one of those rare filmmakers who actually knew how to use visuals to help tell his story. The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance is full of pauses in dialogue which, through the most subtle of body language, contribute as much information to the story as words would - sometimes, more. On the subject of costume design, I refer you to Liberty himself. His costume includes the pants from a pinstripe suit, a classic rich brocade Mexican-style vest, and a belt knife sheathed at the small of his back instead of at the customary hip. It's a brilliant, perfect costume for a character who's become rich in the manner Liberty has, and makes him all the more frightening.
Yes, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance is one of the greatest westerns ever made - that is, until Liberty is shot. After that, well, the parlance of our times might describe it as a hot mess, and there's an hour or so of disconnected, overblown, dullness. The original archived Variety review says it best: "They [Ford and the writers] have taken a disarmingly simple and affecting premise, developed it with craft and skill to a natural point of conclusion, and then have proceeded to run it into the ground, destroying the simplicity and intimacy for which they have striven." Letting a Shakespearean actor run amok for the course of several unnecessary speeches didn't help either, and is perhaps the single most annoying aspect of the film, even above its equally unnecessary runtime.
So...I don't really know what to say, in the end. It starts as a masterpiece and ends as a train wreck. That masterpiece, though, is worth every second of it. Watch at your own risk? I did, and I don't regret it.
(Well, I have vague memories from my pre-school days of being in the same room as someone who was watching My Darling Clementine, but I don't need to tell you that doesn't count.)
One good scandal deserves another: I've never seen a John Wayne western. I've seen The Green Berets, and North to Alaska - I could sing you the theme song from the latter - but have never seen him do what he's best remembered for.
So I figured, why not do something about that?
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962) is a story of evil, ignorance, and the perpetual conflict between theory and practice. When freshly-barred lawyer Ransome Stoddard (James Stewart) is beaten and left for dead by bandits after his stagecoach is held up, he wakes up in the tiny town of Shinbone to learn that the locals know exactly who the perpetrator was - and that none of them plan to do a thing about it. Liberty (Lee Marvin) is one of those untouchable types, akin to a contemporary mob boss - his involvement in most of his crimes is hard to legally prove, and everyone who knows of him is terrified of what he'll do should they try to take him down or simply stand up to his bullying. Liberty Valance is so scary that he has Lee Van Cleef as a lackey. The local sherrif is a drunk, simpering joke whose main goals are mooching and self-preservation. Rancher Tom Doniphon (Wayne), who found Ranse in the desert, walks a strange line between wisdom and apathy (more on that below), and the townsfolk, including immigrant cafe owners Peter and Nora and their waitress, Hallie (Vera Miles), take the relatively safe stance of not rocking the boat. Unfortunately, Ranse is all about rocking the boat. Full of big ideas about law and order and the way things should be, and taking a shine to Hallie, he starts a school and begins educating the locals on rights, freedoms, and law, all the while trying to find a way to catch Liberty. Tom believes in escalation, and things certainly start to escalate after the titular shooting...but not in the obvious way.
There are some very interesting stories contained in this film. The most interesting, and significant, is the conflict between Ransome and Tom, and what it begets. Ranse is idealism and possibilities; Tom is pragmatism and known facts. Ranse is the new way of life in the States, full of order, and governance, and systems; Tom is the old way, full of a very different concept of order, governance, and systems. Both men are justified in their beliefs. Ranse isn't some ridiculous, flight-of-fancy idealist - the theories he's bringing to Shinbone are ones he's seen put into successful practice in the major cities of the North. And Tom is no thoughtless hardhead - he's lived in the desert his entire life, and knows how life works there, and what it takes to survive. The conflict comes not because the men are opposites, but because both have a complete lack of respect for the other's ideas and way of life, and the result of this disrespect is, ultimately, the catalyst of the film, and its consequences are disastrous. There's also a fascinating parallel between Liberty and Tom. Liberty Valance is a penultimate bully; his tools are terror, control, and an unwavering self-confidence. Tom is also a bully, his tools being contempt, dismissal, and arrogance. He and Ranse are interested in the same girl, but the audience isn't given a reason to root for Tom in this, as we see him employing those tools while hitting on Hallie.
Other great points of The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance include the filming, direction, and costume design. Though made in the early sixties, when colour film had been a U.S. stable for over a decade, it was shot in black and white. Speculated reasons for this include budget issues, and the fact that Stewart and Wayne were supposed to be playing characters thirty years younger than they were, and how they would have looked even more implausible in colour. Whatever the case, using black and white film stock didn't mean they used cheap old stock. It's the richest, most beautiful black and white film I've ever seen, the only one I know that really looks right. Just gorgeous. On the subject of direction, it's evident that John Ford was one of those rare filmmakers who actually knew how to use visuals to help tell his story. The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance is full of pauses in dialogue which, through the most subtle of body language, contribute as much information to the story as words would - sometimes, more. On the subject of costume design, I refer you to Liberty himself. His costume includes the pants from a pinstripe suit, a classic rich brocade Mexican-style vest, and a belt knife sheathed at the small of his back instead of at the customary hip. It's a brilliant, perfect costume for a character who's become rich in the manner Liberty has, and makes him all the more frightening.
Yes, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance is one of the greatest westerns ever made - that is, until Liberty is shot. After that, well, the parlance of our times might describe it as a hot mess, and there's an hour or so of disconnected, overblown, dullness. The original archived Variety review says it best: "They [Ford and the writers] have taken a disarmingly simple and affecting premise, developed it with craft and skill to a natural point of conclusion, and then have proceeded to run it into the ground, destroying the simplicity and intimacy for which they have striven." Letting a Shakespearean actor run amok for the course of several unnecessary speeches didn't help either, and is perhaps the single most annoying aspect of the film, even above its equally unnecessary runtime.
So...I don't really know what to say, in the end. It starts as a masterpiece and ends as a train wreck. That masterpiece, though, is worth every second of it. Watch at your own risk? I did, and I don't regret it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)