Danny Boyle's Sunshine isn't nearly as terrifying as his 2002 smash 28 Days Later, but it burrows just as deeply inside your head. The film is driven by a mission to re-ignite the sun, which has become a dying star in a 50-year-away future; the mission is driven by a team of eight astronauts and scientists - a menagerie of genders and mindsets that become all the more dynamic, all the more unsettlingly fluid, the longer the group is in space. And they've been in space for 16 months. They weren't the first however; that would be the Icarus I (they are, appropriately, Icarus II): an eerily similar mission set out on seven years ago. It is precisely this mission, and the crosspiece of people and cultures that inhabit the ship, that become the narrative focus of Sunshine, but its thematic focus is what...well...shines.
Displayed through a lens composed alternately of character-driven and visually-driven scenes, the intricate interplay of light and shadow, morality and mortality, and God verus Mankind, stands as Danny Boyle's most memorable achievement with his latest film. The other assorted attributes of the film (most of the following, actually, created by scribe Alex Garland) - including the individual team members, the story as a cohesive vision, etc. - are less involved and less involving. It is such that, together these wildly varying (in quality, as well as tone) elements come together only just so. And it is such that the wildly varying fans of the differing genres to be mined here (science fiction, suspense, thriller, drama) come together also just so; united in a fragile bond of awe for this optically stunning, psycologically transfixing, irritatingly aloof movie.
Now that I've hinted at length of the nooks and crannies, let us get down to business. Captain Kaneda (Hiroyuki Sanada) and his crew, who man a long space-station like ship with a bulbous Sun-simulating shield at one end, are beginning to crack up. Not only do they obviously face the duress of saving all of mankind, but the temptation to more and more succumb to the manufactured tempermants of their self-created world (not to mention the omnipresent aura of a fascinatingly addictive sun) can only be held off for so long. Plus, so it becomes apparent before the first 30-minutes are up, they may need to stop off and rescue the long-lost Icarus I if ever they even want to make it to the sun to deliver their bomb (nicknamed the "payload", an island-sized bomb created and manned by Robert Capa, embodied with weary and willowy grace by Cillian Murphy). Every minute it seems their mission expands to encompass more and more the phrase "above and beyond the call of duty."
The products of such a volatile situational cocktail as the one described above are the eminent subjects of director Boyle's camera and Garland's script (which also features Chris Evans, in a nicely dramatic turnabout, as the ship's engineer). They capture the fistfights that break out; the dubiously moral calls that have to be made; and the noble (and not so noble) fights for survival and command that ensue when the Icarus' mission is turned all twisty by that crazy Icarus I pit-stop. Suffice to say, the grueling possibilities of a stir-crazy crew are played out with finely-calibrated skill and owe more to 2001: A Space Odyssey and Solaris than to more recent sci-fi save-the-Earth muck like Armaggedon and The Core.
Yet if that was all their was to Sunshine - such well-crafted psycho-exmination - than why the so-so rating? My explanation goes to the heart of the matter (and so is inevitable to this film): the duly-followed scenarios of depression and mania and Sun-worship that ensue on-board can only carry a viewer so far. I was left frequently dreaming that their had been a little more meat on the skeletal character structure of the film (disregarding the actors' fine work therein) so that each tense encounter cut a little deeper, felt a little less Sci-Fi and a little more I-Don't-Want-Them-to-Die. Still, Danny Boyle continually reaches into his deceptively large visual bag-o'-tricks to find some mesmerizing new way to capture a chase scene or a view of the sun at full blast; and each new time I was struck shocked - all thoughts of convoluted plots and mediocre pacing erased - at the gravity of the film, of their mission. So, in that the filmmaking team succeeds: they suck the audience into the atmosphere, dread, and fatalism of the astronauts' last-ditch effort, leaving you a little stir-crazy yourself in the process.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Cloverfield: B+
Something has taken over. Something - some wunderkind maestro of our pop-addled times - is accomplishing astonishing feats where none were thought workable before. As you may or may not (ok, may) have already guessed, this "Something" I'm referring to isn't the roving, homicidal creature of Matt Reeve's Cloverfield, but rather the film's producer: J.J. Abrams - he of the golden touch in genres as wide-ranging as the interpersonal tension of college drama Felicity or that mysterious box-locked-within-a-riddle-tied-up-in-a-safe called Lost. Abrams, the writer-director of M:I 3 and creator of a host of hit television shows, has a unique pop aesthetic - unique because it constantly changes: he broke in big writing the script to 1998's ridiculously bombastic Armageddon and leapt from their to the intimate (and critically adored) Felicity; from that he produced the murky spy drama Alias, the show that launched Jennifer Garner, and went on to be at the center of a slew of films and shows (most recently the Star Trek-reboot and the upcoming Fringe for t.v) as the latest demi-god/producer in Hollywood.
Abrams is obviously multi-faceted, but it was nonetheless a shocker to witness the birthing process of his latest gem Cloverfield, the story of Manhattan twentysomethings trying to survive a monster attack, as it was a process shrouded in secrecy and revealed, at last, with a rapid flourish and a quick shove onstage. But regardless (or because of) his methods, the film works; Reeves ShakyCam gimmickry (e.g. the film is shot entirely from the POV of one of the yuppies - T.J. Miller - attempting to survive the attack) and Drew Goddard's script give this tense, enthralling beaut real breath...by stealing all the audience's.
We begin with Rob Hawkins (Michael Stahl-David) filming the house of a friend he's currently staying with; the camera shifts then to his bed, with his latest conquest, Beth (Odette Yustman), flirtatiously situated inside. They exchange some pithy banter and then plan the ensuing day (the idea of a Coney Island visit is tossed around). Suddenly,the film cuts out and then back in on a harried couple - Lily (Jessica Lucas) and Jason (Mike Vogel), Rob's brother - preparing for a surprise gowing-away party for Rob (apparently he's been given a VP job in Tokyo). The couple exchange dialogue in much the same manner as Rob and Beth and right after their finished, so too does the film cut out again; see a pattern?
You should, because Cloverfield, a ferociously well-structured entertainment, is all about shifting patterns - how the camera systematically cuts in and out of the action, back and forth over several different events - and the semi-brilliant way Reeves and Goddard subvert them in service of a classic big-scale Monster Movie gone contemporary and small-scale. Part of this downsizing can be seen in the oddly unmemorable characters now at the forefront of the action. Each is played with grungy grace by grungy non-actors and each has their own stream-lined quarks and punchlines; such a blase center as this quartet (or quintet, depending on the scene) may seem to weaken the film, but remember that bit about subversion? As the movie goes on, terror and torment stacking up - a move stolen silently from the master, Steven Speilberg, in his War of the Worlds days - the twentysomethingnothings become somebodies, so much so that by the end (a well-tempered pastiche of bleakness and sentimental irony) I was tempted even to label Cloverfield "heartfelt".
But foremost on the film's list of attributes isn't its heart (or the lack thereof on its sleeve), but rather its willing-and-readiness to shock and entertain. From perhaps the twentieth of these bite-sized 85-minutes, when the Godzilla/Alien thing first appears, the movie taunts and teases with the best of them: scaring you with things that leap from dark places; unsettling you with the untimely deaths of cheeky and well-liked characters; and portraying the destruction of a city from within the annals of 21st-century relationships. That's a lot of stuff skitering around the edges of a movie proclaimed to be such popcorn-blockbuster material, but it never underperforms or overreaches. Instead, guided by Abrams, Reeves, and Goddard (whose script keeps turning tricks I never saw coming), Cloverfield becomes as multi-talented as its producer; satisfying on levels a movie about a Big Creepy shouldn't be able, and making me jump during a movie about a bunch of Friends and Lovers when I have no right to. Sounds schizophrenic? Try oodles of thrilling, intense, fun.
Abrams is obviously multi-faceted, but it was nonetheless a shocker to witness the birthing process of his latest gem Cloverfield, the story of Manhattan twentysomethings trying to survive a monster attack, as it was a process shrouded in secrecy and revealed, at last, with a rapid flourish and a quick shove onstage. But regardless (or because of) his methods, the film works; Reeves ShakyCam gimmickry (e.g. the film is shot entirely from the POV of one of the yuppies - T.J. Miller - attempting to survive the attack) and Drew Goddard's script give this tense, enthralling beaut real breath...by stealing all the audience's.
We begin with Rob Hawkins (Michael Stahl-David) filming the house of a friend he's currently staying with; the camera shifts then to his bed, with his latest conquest, Beth (Odette Yustman), flirtatiously situated inside. They exchange some pithy banter and then plan the ensuing day (the idea of a Coney Island visit is tossed around). Suddenly,the film cuts out and then back in on a harried couple - Lily (Jessica Lucas) and Jason (Mike Vogel), Rob's brother - preparing for a surprise gowing-away party for Rob (apparently he's been given a VP job in Tokyo). The couple exchange dialogue in much the same manner as Rob and Beth and right after their finished, so too does the film cut out again; see a pattern?
You should, because Cloverfield, a ferociously well-structured entertainment, is all about shifting patterns - how the camera systematically cuts in and out of the action, back and forth over several different events - and the semi-brilliant way Reeves and Goddard subvert them in service of a classic big-scale Monster Movie gone contemporary and small-scale. Part of this downsizing can be seen in the oddly unmemorable characters now at the forefront of the action. Each is played with grungy grace by grungy non-actors and each has their own stream-lined quarks and punchlines; such a blase center as this quartet (or quintet, depending on the scene) may seem to weaken the film, but remember that bit about subversion? As the movie goes on, terror and torment stacking up - a move stolen silently from the master, Steven Speilberg, in his War of the Worlds days - the twentysomethingnothings become somebodies, so much so that by the end (a well-tempered pastiche of bleakness and sentimental irony) I was tempted even to label Cloverfield "heartfelt".
But foremost on the film's list of attributes isn't its heart (or the lack thereof on its sleeve), but rather its willing-and-readiness to shock and entertain. From perhaps the twentieth of these bite-sized 85-minutes, when the Godzilla/Alien thing first appears, the movie taunts and teases with the best of them: scaring you with things that leap from dark places; unsettling you with the untimely deaths of cheeky and well-liked characters; and portraying the destruction of a city from within the annals of 21st-century relationships. That's a lot of stuff skitering around the edges of a movie proclaimed to be such popcorn-blockbuster material, but it never underperforms or overreaches. Instead, guided by Abrams, Reeves, and Goddard (whose script keeps turning tricks I never saw coming), Cloverfield becomes as multi-talented as its producer; satisfying on levels a movie about a Big Creepy shouldn't be able, and making me jump during a movie about a bunch of Friends and Lovers when I have no right to. Sounds schizophrenic? Try oodles of thrilling, intense, fun.
Angel: The Complete Third Season: A-
I suppose the biggest surprise of Angel's third season isn't in its newly-minted dramatic grace; or its stronger-than-ever wit (sharpened, more so every episode, on pop culture and the ebb-and-flow of conversation); or even the now constantly prevalent talent of its actors. No, the big jaw-dropper of a shock that is to be discovered in this third round of exploits from Angel Investigations is how well all the aforementioned elements come together. This isn't the gawky first year, wherein Angel (David Boreanaz) went parading through somewhat entertaining storylines bantering with a somewhat entertaining supporting cast; and neither is it last season, where the first signs of maturity (and, as well, the pain of growth spurts) first popped up in darker and more extended serial narratives while characters began to bend and sway beyond the expected. This is Angel: The Complete Third Season, a slice of television pleasure that is more plausibly - thrillingly - dramatic, more dynamically written, and more consistently funny than any year previous.
Part of the credit should go to Joss Whedon and his team of writers. More aptly, though, it should go to David Greenwalt and his team of writers. Certainly both men should share the adoration (both did jointly create the show, spun from Whedon's masterwork Buffy the Vampire Slayer) but it's more obvious with each year that both men did not dedicate the same level of energy. In that contest, Greenwalt is the clear winner; and the episodes he's written - from "Heartthrob" to "Offspring" to "Tomorrow" - are ranked among the season's best. Yet the trend of his continuing, and growing, strength as a writer-director extends beyond just he: each of Mutant Enemy's (the production company Whedon started to foster his pop-crazed ambitions; think the modern-day Factory with less pan-sexual shenanigans) scribes contributed at least one great work to the season, and some (Tim Minear, Mere Smith) even gave more. Such perserverance and advancement shows in every densely-plotted detail of Angel & Co's latest bumpy ride through demon-infested L.A. Among their growing concerns: Darla's pregnant, Wesley's (Alexis Denisof) cracking up, Cordelia's (Charisma Carpenter) visions are becoming more and more visceral - in every sense of the word - and Angel himself is working through grief over Buffy's death.
These obstacles may seem steep, but they are used in beautiful service of Angel's central theme: the price and redemption of consequences. Each new struggle molds and re-tweaks our beloved team, and only in the best ways. Gone is Mopey Angel from the middle of season two - he's now downright jocular in brooding; gone too (eventually) is Watered-Down Wesley, he's been replaced by a demon hunter (let's call him, finally, Watcher Wesley) far more capable (and darkly witty) than anything I'd yet expected. Cordelia (blessed, blessed Ms. Carpenter: an actress of quicksilver comedic and dramtic timing) blossoms into a figure of true radiance - literally - but also one beyond her normal superficiality; her visions have helped her transcend humanity (again, literally) and Angel, with such a leading lady, is lucky indeed. And Fred (Amy Acker), the wacky physicist the gang rescued from Pylea late last season, eventually blossoms as well into much-needed goofy relief.
Yet this relief is short-lived in the scheme of things. Each new day (and episode) brings new twists and turns for our heroes: one episode, a new character; another, a new power. This more lean, bolt-tightened storytelling benefits the overall season magnificently - erasing most of the inconsistencies that plagued the show for most of its first two seasons. Aiding, as well, is the show's more witty wit. Sterling examples include the season finale, "Birthday", and "Carpe Noctem". Noticing how well the two elements compliment each other here reminds the viewer just how out-of-whack the dynamic could occasionaly be in the early years - some stories tipping too far into hokeyness while others strained into stony-faced denial - and just how well its been perfected now. I once said that, possibly, Angel was just the show to get all hot and bothered about; well, now's the time, commence the celebration: Angel has arrived.
Part of the credit should go to Joss Whedon and his team of writers. More aptly, though, it should go to David Greenwalt and his team of writers. Certainly both men should share the adoration (both did jointly create the show, spun from Whedon's masterwork Buffy the Vampire Slayer) but it's more obvious with each year that both men did not dedicate the same level of energy. In that contest, Greenwalt is the clear winner; and the episodes he's written - from "Heartthrob" to "Offspring" to "Tomorrow" - are ranked among the season's best. Yet the trend of his continuing, and growing, strength as a writer-director extends beyond just he: each of Mutant Enemy's (the production company Whedon started to foster his pop-crazed ambitions; think the modern-day Factory with less pan-sexual shenanigans) scribes contributed at least one great work to the season, and some (Tim Minear, Mere Smith) even gave more. Such perserverance and advancement shows in every densely-plotted detail of Angel & Co's latest bumpy ride through demon-infested L.A. Among their growing concerns: Darla's pregnant, Wesley's (Alexis Denisof) cracking up, Cordelia's (Charisma Carpenter) visions are becoming more and more visceral - in every sense of the word - and Angel himself is working through grief over Buffy's death.
These obstacles may seem steep, but they are used in beautiful service of Angel's central theme: the price and redemption of consequences. Each new struggle molds and re-tweaks our beloved team, and only in the best ways. Gone is Mopey Angel from the middle of season two - he's now downright jocular in brooding; gone too (eventually) is Watered-Down Wesley, he's been replaced by a demon hunter (let's call him, finally, Watcher Wesley) far more capable (and darkly witty) than anything I'd yet expected. Cordelia (blessed, blessed Ms. Carpenter: an actress of quicksilver comedic and dramtic timing) blossoms into a figure of true radiance - literally - but also one beyond her normal superficiality; her visions have helped her transcend humanity (again, literally) and Angel, with such a leading lady, is lucky indeed. And Fred (Amy Acker), the wacky physicist the gang rescued from Pylea late last season, eventually blossoms as well into much-needed goofy relief.
Yet this relief is short-lived in the scheme of things. Each new day (and episode) brings new twists and turns for our heroes: one episode, a new character; another, a new power. This more lean, bolt-tightened storytelling benefits the overall season magnificently - erasing most of the inconsistencies that plagued the show for most of its first two seasons. Aiding, as well, is the show's more witty wit. Sterling examples include the season finale, "Birthday", and "Carpe Noctem". Noticing how well the two elements compliment each other here reminds the viewer just how out-of-whack the dynamic could occasionaly be in the early years - some stories tipping too far into hokeyness while others strained into stony-faced denial - and just how well its been perfected now. I once said that, possibly, Angel was just the show to get all hot and bothered about; well, now's the time, commence the celebration: Angel has arrived.
La Vie en Rose: B+
The best thing I can say about La Vie en Rose, Olivier Dahan's madly overripe fantasia of a biopic about Edith Piaf, is that Marion Cotillard - the actress embodying "The Little Sparrow of Paris" - makes all the swirling, impressionistic passion at Rose's core work; the flip-side of that same coin (and what can occasionally make Dahan's film a semi-frustrating mess) is that events, characters, and chronology never seem to quite link up. The story of Piaf, a slight women who peaked quickly as the most mighty of songbirds in the '40s and '50s, is reduced from an epic examination of emotional ruin to a story of three seperate characters - Young Edith, Famous Edith, and Old Edith.
But, again, each is portrayed by Cotillard at her most virtuostic and, aside from that, Olivier Dahan, as writer-director, has an ability to stage singular scenes of impact and grace; together, the two talents make Piaf's life a felt presence in the audience. They turn her tale of uplift - from the streets; from a brothel; from her parents at varying intervals of childhood - and souful ruin into a film worthy of reciprocating Piaf's unforgettable nature: cascading, crushing, fanatically romantic, and mournful.
Each of these sentiments are revealed and flurished during different periods of the film; what connects them is a technique Dahan displays throughout the movie: a bizarrely, and ill-advisedly, utilized time-leap (from upstart to Diva, from Diva to cripple). But what makes them powerful, memorable, instead of isolated and stale, is in the strength of the director's staging. For example: about half-way through the film there is a fantastic scene where Madame Piaf, newly minted as the latest musical diva, strolls through her lush and massive apartment barking orders - the camera following her in swooping, grand takes - and you can practically feel her haughty delight at her new station in life.
Another magnificent feat is the final sequence, wherein three monumental events of Piaf's life - her final interview, on the shore's of France; her final performance, where she debuted the definatly introspective "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien" (translation: No, I Have No Regrets); and her final night, where she spills her heart to her live-in nurse, a smile of contentment accompanying her revelations - are spliced together, creating a swirling cocktail of heartache, defiance, and joy.
This trifecta, I think, is at the core of La Vie en Rose. The flaw with such truth is that these emotions weren't all there is to a singer who was declared throughout her career as the "Soul of Paris" (and who's voice could crush mountains); and the people and connections she made in real life were never meant to be so trivialized and mashed together into such an unmemorable tangle of names and faces. Still, she was at her root a women where passion and tragedy became one; where her very nature is cemented in sadness becoming radiant and happiness becoming grief. Olivier Dahan and Marion Cotillard strive their hardest to capture this elusive and messy personality and triumphantly they suceed.
But, again, each is portrayed by Cotillard at her most virtuostic and, aside from that, Olivier Dahan, as writer-director, has an ability to stage singular scenes of impact and grace; together, the two talents make Piaf's life a felt presence in the audience. They turn her tale of uplift - from the streets; from a brothel; from her parents at varying intervals of childhood - and souful ruin into a film worthy of reciprocating Piaf's unforgettable nature: cascading, crushing, fanatically romantic, and mournful.
Each of these sentiments are revealed and flurished during different periods of the film; what connects them is a technique Dahan displays throughout the movie: a bizarrely, and ill-advisedly, utilized time-leap (from upstart to Diva, from Diva to cripple). But what makes them powerful, memorable, instead of isolated and stale, is in the strength of the director's staging. For example: about half-way through the film there is a fantastic scene where Madame Piaf, newly minted as the latest musical diva, strolls through her lush and massive apartment barking orders - the camera following her in swooping, grand takes - and you can practically feel her haughty delight at her new station in life.
Another magnificent feat is the final sequence, wherein three monumental events of Piaf's life - her final interview, on the shore's of France; her final performance, where she debuted the definatly introspective "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien" (translation: No, I Have No Regrets); and her final night, where she spills her heart to her live-in nurse, a smile of contentment accompanying her revelations - are spliced together, creating a swirling cocktail of heartache, defiance, and joy.
This trifecta, I think, is at the core of La Vie en Rose. The flaw with such truth is that these emotions weren't all there is to a singer who was declared throughout her career as the "Soul of Paris" (and who's voice could crush mountains); and the people and connections she made in real life were never meant to be so trivialized and mashed together into such an unmemorable tangle of names and faces. Still, she was at her root a women where passion and tragedy became one; where her very nature is cemented in sadness becoming radiant and happiness becoming grief. Olivier Dahan and Marion Cotillard strive their hardest to capture this elusive and messy personality and triumphantly they suceed.
The Secret History: A-
Comparisons need apply between Donna Tartt's debut 1992 novel The Secret History and Marisha Pessl's debut 2006 novel Special Topics in Calamity Physics. Both feature, most obviously, the same central character structure: an outsider (in Pessl's case, driven by her intellectual superiority, while in Tartt's, financial inferiority) is driven into a romanticized friendship with a close-knit group of precocious young adults and mentored by a glamorously reclusive (and enigmatic) teacher of some glamorously reclusive (and enigmatic) subject; Pessl chose the far more blithe and witty target of film - an area of study rife with options for her razor-sharp pen - while Tartt chooses Classics (the study of Ancient Greece: language, literature, politics, religous rituals and all), a more gothically enamored choice and one that immediately sets a clear dichotomy between her more grave, more psychological, thriller and Pessl's shinier, swifter-moving, twist.
Still, the unnerving similarities do persist. Both plots eventually deal with murder and both eventually, more or less, turn a sharply-toned eye onto it's own protagonists - striving, and achieving to two wildly different degrees, for an air of moral ambiguity. And, too, both Tartt and Pessl's prose glitters on various occasions with the sheer transcendant light of its erudite capability. As it were, after a thorough early preview of the book (I'd plowed through 200 of the 550 pages), I still found the connections between the two too obvious to pass up; I was all ready to declare Physics a subtle - and silent - deconstruction of History's grave, suspenseful, pretension.
But, and after much thoughtful and slowly-paced narrative and interaction, I came to determine that The Secret History is a far more focused and chilling dissection of the discrepancies between Intellectualism and Romanticism; that is, the many differences caused when the world of six sparklingly Hampden college students is forced to collide with a world dark, and squirming, with conspiracy and betrayal and wrenching introspection.
And it all began with Dionysus.
When Richard Pappin discovers a small Northeastern elite college - the aforementioned Hampden - and subsequently is indoctrinated into a small clique of Greek fanatics (among them: wintery intellecutal Henry; broadly charismatic and callow Bunny; grandly dramatic, and gay, Francis; and the twins - Charles and Camilla - a pair of introverted and "compassionate" humans among such scholars), he is intertwined in a conspiracy to cover the mess created when Henry & Co. try to re-create the orgiastic rites of Dionysus, god of wine and sex. Richard, also the narrator, lets us in on the conspiracy from the first page - when he reveals their murder of Bunny - but much of the novel is spent on the slow build-up of tensions that created such a horrific fiasco and the immediate here-after: how an act affects Richard's new group of friends and himself.
Does it sound slow? Then it is; Tartt has a masterful sense of plot construction (she reveals her hair-line fractures of character and twist with maximum arch drama) but none for pacing and only a modicum of it for characters (though the entire group has more individuality than Ms. Pesshl mustered for the "Bluebloods"). Still, History has a slow-burn chill that seeps into you and - in the daring final 100 pages of never-ending climax - finally grabs and shakes you to the core. The epilogue has a jolting clinical style but this debut has a cutting clarity of purpose and confidence that, when it was finally revealed, hit me like a blast of cold, steely, well-written and textured talent. Bravo.
Still, the unnerving similarities do persist. Both plots eventually deal with murder and both eventually, more or less, turn a sharply-toned eye onto it's own protagonists - striving, and achieving to two wildly different degrees, for an air of moral ambiguity. And, too, both Tartt and Pessl's prose glitters on various occasions with the sheer transcendant light of its erudite capability. As it were, after a thorough early preview of the book (I'd plowed through 200 of the 550 pages), I still found the connections between the two too obvious to pass up; I was all ready to declare Physics a subtle - and silent - deconstruction of History's grave, suspenseful, pretension.
But, and after much thoughtful and slowly-paced narrative and interaction, I came to determine that The Secret History is a far more focused and chilling dissection of the discrepancies between Intellectualism and Romanticism; that is, the many differences caused when the world of six sparklingly Hampden college students is forced to collide with a world dark, and squirming, with conspiracy and betrayal and wrenching introspection.
And it all began with Dionysus.
When Richard Pappin discovers a small Northeastern elite college - the aforementioned Hampden - and subsequently is indoctrinated into a small clique of Greek fanatics (among them: wintery intellecutal Henry; broadly charismatic and callow Bunny; grandly dramatic, and gay, Francis; and the twins - Charles and Camilla - a pair of introverted and "compassionate" humans among such scholars), he is intertwined in a conspiracy to cover the mess created when Henry & Co. try to re-create the orgiastic rites of Dionysus, god of wine and sex. Richard, also the narrator, lets us in on the conspiracy from the first page - when he reveals their murder of Bunny - but much of the novel is spent on the slow build-up of tensions that created such a horrific fiasco and the immediate here-after: how an act affects Richard's new group of friends and himself.
Does it sound slow? Then it is; Tartt has a masterful sense of plot construction (she reveals her hair-line fractures of character and twist with maximum arch drama) but none for pacing and only a modicum of it for characters (though the entire group has more individuality than Ms. Pesshl mustered for the "Bluebloods"). Still, History has a slow-burn chill that seeps into you and - in the daring final 100 pages of never-ending climax - finally grabs and shakes you to the core. The epilogue has a jolting clinical style but this debut has a cutting clarity of purpose and confidence that, when it was finally revealed, hit me like a blast of cold, steely, well-written and textured talent. Bravo.
Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights: B
The power of Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights has always been in its devastating richness of emotion; how well her pens captures the tormented love between Catherine Earnshaw (Juliette Binoche) and Heathcliffe (Ralph Fiennes) on the high, cold Moors. Brontë, a resident of the English Moors herself, also knows a little of the isolated treachery, depression, and (in some twisted, delightful way) wit that lives there too and as one works their way through the complicated and thrilling prose, the story of the Heights becomes a tale for the ages; dark, sad, and completely unforgettable - one of the better books I've read in these last years.
Yet the catch, too, of Brontë's only novel is in its complication. Forget for a moment even the least of a filmmaker's worries - that rotating-narrators technique the author so skillfully deployed - and there are still at least a dozen other snags in any adaptation's plans-to-the-screen; namely, the entire second generation spawned between the blighted machinations of Heathcliffe and Cathy - a group of people who are the predominant focus of the book's latter half and without whom (as the hallowed 1939 film version, one I found somehow not morose enough, demonstrated so well) the book's continuing edgy drama and woe goes a little...flat.
Well, no such troubles will hound this British (finally!) interpretation of one crackling, sprawling, wicked opera of the soul. In the case of director Peter Kosminsky and writer Ann Devlin, almost no trouble exists in this sense: they pack in as many of the plot's minute details as they can; and, through the use of a ghostly-whisper narration (provided by the author herself, and played with a great chill of a voice by Sinéad O'Connor), they attain the majority of Brontë's broad - and tragically humane - emotional specturm. The result, as I've spent so much time dodging, is one of the better Heights adaptations I have ever seen, the best in fact.
Still, it is a testament to the depth of the source material that even through all the clever shortcuts (thank goodness for circumventing those awful Linton-Cathy scenes!) and expose-in-voice-over (thank goodness for giving us just the right amount of Hindley, Ms. Brontë!), this version loses something in translation. Perhaps it is that it fails to fully fathom the sick dichomoties between Catherine and Heathcliffe - though it faithfully captures the most startlingly dramatic scenes surrounding them well enough. Or maybe it's that a previous traveler to the author's more desolate original world, full of cockney-spewing, pious butlers and righteous maids is jarred by re-visiting and somehow slimmer population on screen; though kudos are in order to Kosminsky for capturing, through muted quick-cut seconds of Moor, the jagged physical and mental landscapes of the character's minds.
In fact, that's perhaps the best thing I can say - and it is what makes this movie, above all other attempts, the most full even as it doesn't fully realize to stand up itself. Binoche and Fiennes do solid work with their polymorphic characters against Devlin's utterly true-to-the-standard screenplay (FYI: loved that it snatches whole speeches from the book) and the supporting cast, not introduced until the last 25 minutes or so, live up to those final remorseful minutes with stoic passion. It is that stoic passion, after all, that Emily Brontë tapped and subverted in her high, austere cadences for a truly sweeping tragedy; and it is that same stoic passion that these British filmmakers live up to with some admirable regard - capturing, if not the true richness of her creation, than at least a more lively (and emotionally powerful) impression of it than Laurence Olivier's scowls.
Yet the catch, too, of Brontë's only novel is in its complication. Forget for a moment even the least of a filmmaker's worries - that rotating-narrators technique the author so skillfully deployed - and there are still at least a dozen other snags in any adaptation's plans-to-the-screen; namely, the entire second generation spawned between the blighted machinations of Heathcliffe and Cathy - a group of people who are the predominant focus of the book's latter half and without whom (as the hallowed 1939 film version, one I found somehow not morose enough, demonstrated so well) the book's continuing edgy drama and woe goes a little...flat.
Well, no such troubles will hound this British (finally!) interpretation of one crackling, sprawling, wicked opera of the soul. In the case of director Peter Kosminsky and writer Ann Devlin, almost no trouble exists in this sense: they pack in as many of the plot's minute details as they can; and, through the use of a ghostly-whisper narration (provided by the author herself, and played with a great chill of a voice by Sinéad O'Connor), they attain the majority of Brontë's broad - and tragically humane - emotional specturm. The result, as I've spent so much time dodging, is one of the better Heights adaptations I have ever seen, the best in fact.
Still, it is a testament to the depth of the source material that even through all the clever shortcuts (thank goodness for circumventing those awful Linton-Cathy scenes!) and expose-in-voice-over (thank goodness for giving us just the right amount of Hindley, Ms. Brontë!), this version loses something in translation. Perhaps it is that it fails to fully fathom the sick dichomoties between Catherine and Heathcliffe - though it faithfully captures the most startlingly dramatic scenes surrounding them well enough. Or maybe it's that a previous traveler to the author's more desolate original world, full of cockney-spewing, pious butlers and righteous maids is jarred by re-visiting and somehow slimmer population on screen; though kudos are in order to Kosminsky for capturing, through muted quick-cut seconds of Moor, the jagged physical and mental landscapes of the character's minds.
In fact, that's perhaps the best thing I can say - and it is what makes this movie, above all other attempts, the most full even as it doesn't fully realize to stand up itself. Binoche and Fiennes do solid work with their polymorphic characters against Devlin's utterly true-to-the-standard screenplay (FYI: loved that it snatches whole speeches from the book) and the supporting cast, not introduced until the last 25 minutes or so, live up to those final remorseful minutes with stoic passion. It is that stoic passion, after all, that Emily Brontë tapped and subverted in her high, austere cadences for a truly sweeping tragedy; and it is that same stoic passion that these British filmmakers live up to with some admirable regard - capturing, if not the true richness of her creation, than at least a more lively (and emotionally powerful) impression of it than Laurence Olivier's scowls.
Juno: A-
It started with a film festival. Juno, a little indie from a rather well-known director (Jason Reitman, director of 2005's uproariously sharp Thank You For Smoking) and a rather provocative first-time screenwriter (Diablo Cody, who spent a year as a stripper just to...well...try it out), exploded onto Sundance - inspiring just the sort of rave reviews and warm obsession marked by last year's Little Miss Sunshine; comparisons between the two carry over from that though: both begin with a coyly ironic title sequence (though, to be fair, Juno's is a tad more colorful and less precious) and both would seem to flaunt their precocious "empathy" in their respective audience's faces. That is where the similarities end, however. As last year's Indie Rave became less human, and more relatably askew (ending, in two strange twists, with a the theft of a dead body and one odd strip tease), Juno does just the opposite; it pounces early on the opportunity to astound watchers with its hyper-articulate banter and then slows down to actually become, to my ever-growing surprise, a very good movie.
Don't think however that the ancestry of 1,000 little dark comedies about the travails of teenage life don't pulse in the lifeblood of Cody's script; or that the performances of Ellen Page (as the title character) and Co. don't perch on the line between cute-sy and true. No, I make no claims that Juno doesn't seem to be just like everything else - just that, given roughly forty-five minutes or so, it becomes so much more.
But what we begin with doesn't seem to inidicate this. We're given the postmodernly-feminist story of a hip teenager (Page) who gets pregnant with her best friend (Michael Cera) through a rather apathetic turn of events (read: she was bored, he was horny). The tricks are in the telling. First: Juno decides to give up the baby for adoption, realizing immediately that she can't handle it but that she would like someone who could. Second: the old adage that everyone laughs to keep from crying serves writer Cody deceptively well as she subtlely and masterfully steers the story of this adoption to two surburban yuppies (Jennifer Garner and Jason Bateman) into an area of beguiling grace. Third: that grace has no better magnet than Juno - and the actress who plays her. And fourth: Reitman and company work double-time, driven constantly by such a blithely and perfectly constructed creation as the script, to make every laugh hit hard and every tear and dramatic reveal do twice as much.
If my also rather blithe and fast-paced review doesn't do Juno justice it isn't for lack of trying, or astoundment. I came expecting the laughs inherent in any precocious production as this. What knocked me down, and touched me afterward, was the surprising level of depth that there is here. Juno MacGuff is a character all right - and so are her parents, friends, and assorted other compatriots - but the satisfying truth at the core of this strikingly-made picture is that she never shifts from teenage girl to "teenage girl"; the indie quirks one looks for all day during their viewing will never materialize and finally I can see why: Juno isn't just Girl Gets Pregnant, it's girl has baby...and gives it away.
Don't think however that the ancestry of 1,000 little dark comedies about the travails of teenage life don't pulse in the lifeblood of Cody's script; or that the performances of Ellen Page (as the title character) and Co. don't perch on the line between cute-sy and true. No, I make no claims that Juno doesn't seem to be just like everything else - just that, given roughly forty-five minutes or so, it becomes so much more.
But what we begin with doesn't seem to inidicate this. We're given the postmodernly-feminist story of a hip teenager (Page) who gets pregnant with her best friend (Michael Cera) through a rather apathetic turn of events (read: she was bored, he was horny). The tricks are in the telling. First: Juno decides to give up the baby for adoption, realizing immediately that she can't handle it but that she would like someone who could. Second: the old adage that everyone laughs to keep from crying serves writer Cody deceptively well as she subtlely and masterfully steers the story of this adoption to two surburban yuppies (Jennifer Garner and Jason Bateman) into an area of beguiling grace. Third: that grace has no better magnet than Juno - and the actress who plays her. And fourth: Reitman and company work double-time, driven constantly by such a blithely and perfectly constructed creation as the script, to make every laugh hit hard and every tear and dramatic reveal do twice as much.
If my also rather blithe and fast-paced review doesn't do Juno justice it isn't for lack of trying, or astoundment. I came expecting the laughs inherent in any precocious production as this. What knocked me down, and touched me afterward, was the surprising level of depth that there is here. Juno MacGuff is a character all right - and so are her parents, friends, and assorted other compatriots - but the satisfying truth at the core of this strikingly-made picture is that she never shifts from teenage girl to "teenage girl"; the indie quirks one looks for all day during their viewing will never materialize and finally I can see why: Juno isn't just Girl Gets Pregnant, it's girl has baby...and gives it away.
Best of 2007*.
The box office rebounded – mightily! – in a year replete with box office giants seemingly every month; but that doesn't mean the year was wanting for quality – heck, occasionally even some of those giants managed to be good. The multiplex was host to a whole slew of brilliant, and brilliantly experimental, films (I'm Not There, Fay Grim), a couple of vastly entertaining jaunts (The Bourne Ultimatum, Knocked Up), and one or two examples of just exactly what it means when a genre is re-invigorated by the very best it has to offer (Sicko, Zodiac, Michael Clayton). Also of note were the other media arenas: television and music (and books I imagine – though, sadly, this year I won't be able to exclude the best from this latter category; thank my non-forward-thinking literary instincts for that) were both vessels for some incredible stuff this year. Just what exactly do I mean? Read on, dear reader, and discover for yourself.
The Top 10 Movies of 2007:
1. I'm Not There
Who but one of our country's most talented experimental filmmakers could take such a bold leap as this? Todd Haynes gambled big when he followed up his worthily adored Far From Heaven – already a deep-thought meditation on the nature of '50s soap-operas – with I'm Not There, a film somehow even more complex…and somehow even slightly more rewarding (if only for your brain, and not your heart). Haynes' film follows six esteemed actors (and then a few, not so much) as they interpret six different figments of legendary folk musician Bob Dylan during six different periods of his life; all the while, several times more than that number of his songs are playing – serving as elegy and poignant reminder all along (think of these melodies as the exclamation point at the end of Haynes two-hour long statement "Dylan was a genius!"). Filmed with even more of the clever period intricacies than the director did for Heaven, written with all of Haynes plain yet addictive spiritual obsession (here, too, he cribs dialogue from actual Dylan interviews and press conferences), and acted by some Hollywood men and women giving their all (Cate Blanchett, decked out in a frazzled mini-afro and slurry cutting delivery, especially stands out), I'm Not There is a head-trip of a bio-pick; a journey into the deep recesses of a mythic-man's creation and existence. And what do we discover after having taken the journey? Not a huge grasp on Bob Dylan's history, for sure, but nothing less than a new-found level of admiration for the heart, hurt, and soul that goes into the creation of Self; and the visionary power music that pours from said Self can attain.
2. Hairspray
If it's not as satirically relevant as Chicago was or as show-stopping as Dreamgirls occasionally could be, then Hairspray is more entertaining than both previous Broadway-to-film adaptations combined (plus, it boasts a more complex transition cycle, going from John Waters-comedy to stage then back again in this Adam Shankman-directed ode to the glorious powers of a good groove). Though it follows a girl on a serious quest – one Tracy Turnblad (Nikki Blonsky) trying to end Baltimore segregation – and boasts a Serious Message, Hairspray is no more heavy than the warmest, most soothing breeze; a fitting comparison too, since the choreography (hello final number!), musical numbers (hello "Mrs. Baltimore Crabs"!), and performances (hello John Travolta – a shockingly, delightfully, lithe performer – in drag!) nourish the heart and soul, leaving a viewer shaking with joy as the credits roll by.
3. Knocked Up
Judd Apatow, that blessedly-gifted purveyor of all things geeky and witty, had his biggest year yet; what with Superbad, Rock Hard (a film yet untested, but hey – I predict good things for it), and of course, his breakout about one rudderless man-child (Seth Rogen) who gets a beaut (Katherine Heigl) pregnant: Knocked Up. It isn't just because it's a nearly flawless comedy – from perhaps the third scene or so, every punch line and performance begins to crackle – or that it's also yet another showcase for writer-director Apatow's vastly underrated talents as an empathetic humanist – if nothing else, his study of Paul Rudd's marriage to Leslie Mann should definitely stifle the groans from the back of the theater – Knocked Up is great because it's a perfectly modern blend of both; wise yet grungy, fast-paced silliness while being emotionally mature, and heart-warming without being saccharine. So utterly lovable I had to see it twice in the same weekend.
4. Michael Clayton
George Clooney began his career in a stressful workplace, the life-or-death arena of ER, and as of late this paragon of glamorous movie-stardom has been enjoying a renaissance of dramatic performances: from his perfectly enjoyable, perfectly square Good Night, and Good Luck to that movie where he lost a finger-nail (Syriana), and now Michael Clayton – Tony Gilroy's tightly controlled, quiet yet unnerving, John Grisham-meets-talent study of sophisticated corporate malfeasance. Clooney speaks in the wounding, seductively articulate words of Gilroy's script in scenes with actors giving the performances of their respective years (Tom Wilkinson and Tilda Swinton), and working through a story that doubles-back on itself – watched all the time by a ghostly, subtle camera – with sudden unseen cleverness. Michael Clayton may seem on the outside a studiously normal corporate-legal thriller, but everything from Wilkinson's mad attorney to Clooney's own bedraggled mug caught in a world progressively yuckier seeks to unsettle and captivate the viewer, and succeeds.
5. Waitress
As sweet-yet-tart as the pies the titular character – played with a brazen, beautiful, litany of emotions by Keri Russell – crafts in those exquisitely wry overhead shots, Waitress is, in outline, a fairy-tale structured like a sitcom. Yet that description gives away nothing of the sort of refreshing, sprightly, and funny awakening-of-the-soul material writer-director-actor Adrienne Shelly summons for this, her tragically final film. She casts some comedic greats (Andy Griffith, still wielding that twinkle in his eye like a pro) to support her funnier (and, ok, more rote) material; and crafts the dramatic subtexts to her plot (Russell is bearing the baby of her psychologically-abusive husband, a creature that makes her none too happy, and is involved with the town OB-GYN) with a finesse that, given time, would surely have blossomed. If nothing else, at least in Waitress that skill allows the blossoming of another kindred soul: Russell – and oh, what a marvelous event to witness.
6. Zodiac
A classically crafted true-crime film, surely director David Fincher's best, that is also one of the year's most sprawling, intricate, and factually minute. It's the type of movie that follows three men – Robert Graysmith (Jake Gyllenhaal), David Toschi (Mark Ruffalo), and Paul Avery (Robert Downey Jr.) – obsessed with the Zodiac Killer during his spree of the late '60s and early '70s but also the type that has the frame of mind to keep the cameras rolling on into the later decades, capturing each man's own struggle with that Great Unsolved Mystery; the sly joke is that these later years would behold the Age of Information and the birth of the very technology that made catching Zodiac thirty years ago impossible, and so utterly haunting. Fincher himself employs none of the ghastly overheatedness that pervaded Panic Room nor any of the gimmicky gritty atmosphere of Se7en (except perhaps in those later Gyllenhaal scenes); instead he utilizes a beautifully simple style, full of lush photography and home to James Vanderbilt's clever script, that gives the mystery of Zodiac room to breathe, and the viewer room to be haunted.
7. The Bourne Ultimatum
There's a reason director Paul Greengrass has made it onto my year-end list for two years running, and it has a little something to do with the way Greengrass took a seemingly rote franchise and re-invigorated – in the process re-invigorating critics bemoaning the popcorn-thriller and audiences bemoaning the un-amusing thriller. Certainly, after the director was done carving up the screen with his signature (and breathlessly genius) shaky camera work and quick-cut editing, The Bourne Ultimatum was neither dumb nor boring; and as a final installment of a nearly-great trilogy of chase films, it delivered entirely and completely for its two-hour running time. Also of note: the filmmaker's prodigious skill at making bland conceits thrilling experiences (as last year's United 93 was); Tony Gilroy's blossoming talents with the ever more complicated narrative; and the cast's steely determinations, of which David Straithairn was the cold-hearted stand-out.
8. Fay Grim
A crucially, and critically, misunderstood gem; writer-director Hal Hartley's bizarre mash-up of tangled-noir romance and satirical craftsmanship swept me along with its wacky camera angles and so-sly-it-isn't-but-still-is wink at every film convention Hartley himself was simultaneously paying tribute to and terrorizing. The plot: Fay Grim (Parker Posey, a delectably frazzled siren) must discover some secrets for some government for her imprisoned brother (James Urbaniak) to help her wayward son (Liam Aiken). Along the way terrorists are encountered, mad-men with slick charms are taken prisoner by said terrorists, and friendships are re-kindled (again, the terrorists). If it all sounds too zany, too "cutesy-indie", my discovery runs counter to that: Fay Grim is a delight of deadpan comedy (kudos to the marvelously game cast), a skilled twist on the twistiest of genres, and in the end, a film I could actually care about. To me, perhaps even more than Juno (which I haven't had the pleasure to see yet), it may be the year's Great Indie Film; treasure it.
9. Sicko
Michael Moore it seems, just like good wine or cheese, can only get better with age – oh, and more crafty and heart-wrenching too. In his screwball-outrage attack on American health insurance, politicized documentarian Moore summons all his vast powers of zany black humor and graceful splicing to produce a work that will leave the audience needing a doctor; that is, sickened and hurt at the diseased bureaucracy America lets prevail everyday on its own doorstep. Yet the true up-lift of Sicko isn't in the incendiary way Moore destroys the healthcare industry, it's in his contemplative and logical final thesis – that if other, "lesser" nations have found plausible alternatives (e.g. Britain, France, Canada, and Cuba), then why can't we? – and the catharsis he allows himself, a wiser and more thoughtful filmmaker, and the audience to draw from that.
10. Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
The ironic contradiction at the heart of Sweeney Todd is that, usually, a very good movie begets some level of enjoyment (hey, even The Departed, with its brain-busting climax, thrilled me) in its audience; Todd, yet another stage-adaptation (this time, by Gothic maestro Tim Burton – a vastly underrated director), does occasionally delight – the sweepingly cynical "A Little Priest"; the minuscule opener "No Place Like London" – but so much more of its charge comes from the tragic melodrama at the core of the film. Namely, there's a murderous barber (Johnny Depp, in grand emotive form) out for revenge against a conniving judge (Alan Rickman, trilled to his own sarcastic baritone) who gets involved with a cannibalistic, pragmatic pie-maker (Helena Bonham Carter…who can act!) while slashing the throats of his own customers. It is, obviously, violent, disturbing, and tragic stuff; and the biggest surprise isn't that Burton & Co. manage to (mostly) pull off Sondheim's deepest-black production, it's that the talent involved – from the actors, to the director (finally, perhaps, getting wide-scale award recognition), to the legendary composer/lyricist himself (who wrote some of his most operatic, heart-rending, and bleakly funny material for Sweeney) – deliver the top of their game. The result can only be this final product, a film to chill and shake you.
The Top Two Television Shows of 2007:
1. 30 Rock
Like being plugged into a line of pure laughing gas for thirty minutes a week, 30 Rock – Tina Fey's improbably enjoyable sitcom about the travails behind a hit sketch show – leaves one feeling giddy and a little unsteady ("Can a sitcom really be making me feel this happy?!") but nonetheless helplessly addicted. Alec Baldwin, as NBC executive Jack Donaghy, stands alone as his own hit of pure glee; and definite, minutes-long applause are in order for the sheer amount of high-wire witty, silly, energy that is packed behind each minute of Rock by Fey and her writers. How nice it is to sit one night a week on a couch with friends or family or a nice cup of tea and laugh, pure and simple, along with a show that can laugh at itself.
2. Friday Night Lights
Sure, it bogged itself down for nearly all of this first-part of the season's run with an uncouth storyline about an attempted-rape-turned-murder while also bogging down two of its most beloved characters – Tyra Collette (Adrianne Palicki) and Landry Clarke (Jesse Plemons); and sure, I'll give you that Friday Night Lights' secret weapon (or one of them at least), that of intimate and heartfelt character interaction between friends (Landry and golden-boy QB1 best friend Matt Saracen – an anguished, if newly underused, Zach Gilford) and family (Kyle Chandler, as Coach Taylor, with Connie Britton, as his delightfully real wife), was nary given a chance to shine these last episodes. And, ok, it wasn't as quintessentially stirring as its first season; but Lights – though it had entire episodes that rang false, and a few too many odd character turns – still retained its awe-inspiring power to shake a viewer, to shake me, and leave one breathless at its unique brand of power: to transcend its confinement, and give life – nay, soul – to its very own small-town discontent. More flawed than I like, but still more gracefully true than most everything else airing.
The Top Two CD's of 2007:
1. Lily Allen: Alright, Still
Though it became a rave-sensation late last year as a British import, Lily Allen's debut album was officially released stateside in January (making it to my list just under the wire, thank goodness) and just as blogs the Internet over went crazy last winter at Allen's cutting, hip-hop influenced lyrics and musical fusions, twice that many came to adore here over these last seasons. Alright, Still is a spiky debut, teetering (in theory) on precociousness, and Allen is by no means a vocal goddess; but she is a talented singer-songwriter and her affinity for warping and curving all manner of musical styles to fit her decidedly unique, and sassy, aesthetic serves her delectably well. Put on "Smile" when you feel self-righteousness; "LDN" for when you're feeling worldly; "Alfie" when you hate to love your family; "Not Big" and "Friend of Mine" for when romance has you down; and Alright, Still when you need to be reminded what true, melodic, smart and catchy talent looks like.
2. Miranda Lambert: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend
Who says there can't be a great country album this year – one of the best in fact? Quite a lot of people, it seems; and so it has always been for Miranda Lambert, whose debut in 2005 was snubbed by country radio but still became a hit. But, if nothing else, Lambert's album proves that her pre-emptive snub by – gasp! – elitist country fans was a huge mistake. On Crazy Ex-Girlfriend the once dreamy-eyed romantic ("Me and Charlie Talking") goes wistful, introspective, fiery, and oh so harmonic. Her second album is a concept album about the concept of small-town romance and the women it affects, and it does the astounding (and, to me, unthinkable): it makes neo-feminism sexy. Lambert, who co-wrote the majority of the songs, views these gals through a multi-faceted prism, be it angry vigilantism (the opener, "Gunpowder and Lead"), sarcastic observance ("Famous in a Small Town"), or (most consistently) the twin nature of wishful pining: regret and desire (lust?). Yet in her hands, these last two feelings go through a re-birth, a cauterization of the heart and are re-born into a catalyst of open-hearted loaner freedom (the Patty Griffin cover "Getting Ready"). Still, she can wax sadly truthful, and two of her best songs – "More Like Her" (an ambiguous and knotty rumination on a love triangle) and "Desperation" (which features the year's most melancholic, powerful refrain: Complicated words slippin' off your tongue and ain't one of them the truth/ I'm still desperate for you) – finally prove it without a doubt: she isn't just this year's Country Best, she may be its best for years to come.
*Note: my list, obviously, has its flaws. I haven't seen half the stuff that is currently setting the award-season abuzz (e.g. Atonement, Into the Wild, Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, etc.), and I can only watch and listen to so much music and television (plus: I don't get HBO, Showtime, and other more prestigious channels with more prestigious fare). I will eventually get to all of this stuff and you will surely know if I've overlooked something. Until then, this is all I have; tell me what I did wrong.
The Top 10 Movies of 2007:
1. I'm Not There
Who but one of our country's most talented experimental filmmakers could take such a bold leap as this? Todd Haynes gambled big when he followed up his worthily adored Far From Heaven – already a deep-thought meditation on the nature of '50s soap-operas – with I'm Not There, a film somehow even more complex…and somehow even slightly more rewarding (if only for your brain, and not your heart). Haynes' film follows six esteemed actors (and then a few, not so much) as they interpret six different figments of legendary folk musician Bob Dylan during six different periods of his life; all the while, several times more than that number of his songs are playing – serving as elegy and poignant reminder all along (think of these melodies as the exclamation point at the end of Haynes two-hour long statement "Dylan was a genius!"). Filmed with even more of the clever period intricacies than the director did for Heaven, written with all of Haynes plain yet addictive spiritual obsession (here, too, he cribs dialogue from actual Dylan interviews and press conferences), and acted by some Hollywood men and women giving their all (Cate Blanchett, decked out in a frazzled mini-afro and slurry cutting delivery, especially stands out), I'm Not There is a head-trip of a bio-pick; a journey into the deep recesses of a mythic-man's creation and existence. And what do we discover after having taken the journey? Not a huge grasp on Bob Dylan's history, for sure, but nothing less than a new-found level of admiration for the heart, hurt, and soul that goes into the creation of Self; and the visionary power music that pours from said Self can attain.
2. Hairspray
If it's not as satirically relevant as Chicago was or as show-stopping as Dreamgirls occasionally could be, then Hairspray is more entertaining than both previous Broadway-to-film adaptations combined (plus, it boasts a more complex transition cycle, going from John Waters-comedy to stage then back again in this Adam Shankman-directed ode to the glorious powers of a good groove). Though it follows a girl on a serious quest – one Tracy Turnblad (Nikki Blonsky) trying to end Baltimore segregation – and boasts a Serious Message, Hairspray is no more heavy than the warmest, most soothing breeze; a fitting comparison too, since the choreography (hello final number!), musical numbers (hello "Mrs. Baltimore Crabs"!), and performances (hello John Travolta – a shockingly, delightfully, lithe performer – in drag!) nourish the heart and soul, leaving a viewer shaking with joy as the credits roll by.
3. Knocked Up
Judd Apatow, that blessedly-gifted purveyor of all things geeky and witty, had his biggest year yet; what with Superbad, Rock Hard (a film yet untested, but hey – I predict good things for it), and of course, his breakout about one rudderless man-child (Seth Rogen) who gets a beaut (Katherine Heigl) pregnant: Knocked Up. It isn't just because it's a nearly flawless comedy – from perhaps the third scene or so, every punch line and performance begins to crackle – or that it's also yet another showcase for writer-director Apatow's vastly underrated talents as an empathetic humanist – if nothing else, his study of Paul Rudd's marriage to Leslie Mann should definitely stifle the groans from the back of the theater – Knocked Up is great because it's a perfectly modern blend of both; wise yet grungy, fast-paced silliness while being emotionally mature, and heart-warming without being saccharine. So utterly lovable I had to see it twice in the same weekend.
4. Michael Clayton
George Clooney began his career in a stressful workplace, the life-or-death arena of ER, and as of late this paragon of glamorous movie-stardom has been enjoying a renaissance of dramatic performances: from his perfectly enjoyable, perfectly square Good Night, and Good Luck to that movie where he lost a finger-nail (Syriana), and now Michael Clayton – Tony Gilroy's tightly controlled, quiet yet unnerving, John Grisham-meets-talent study of sophisticated corporate malfeasance. Clooney speaks in the wounding, seductively articulate words of Gilroy's script in scenes with actors giving the performances of their respective years (Tom Wilkinson and Tilda Swinton), and working through a story that doubles-back on itself – watched all the time by a ghostly, subtle camera – with sudden unseen cleverness. Michael Clayton may seem on the outside a studiously normal corporate-legal thriller, but everything from Wilkinson's mad attorney to Clooney's own bedraggled mug caught in a world progressively yuckier seeks to unsettle and captivate the viewer, and succeeds.
5. Waitress
As sweet-yet-tart as the pies the titular character – played with a brazen, beautiful, litany of emotions by Keri Russell – crafts in those exquisitely wry overhead shots, Waitress is, in outline, a fairy-tale structured like a sitcom. Yet that description gives away nothing of the sort of refreshing, sprightly, and funny awakening-of-the-soul material writer-director-actor Adrienne Shelly summons for this, her tragically final film. She casts some comedic greats (Andy Griffith, still wielding that twinkle in his eye like a pro) to support her funnier (and, ok, more rote) material; and crafts the dramatic subtexts to her plot (Russell is bearing the baby of her psychologically-abusive husband, a creature that makes her none too happy, and is involved with the town OB-GYN) with a finesse that, given time, would surely have blossomed. If nothing else, at least in Waitress that skill allows the blossoming of another kindred soul: Russell – and oh, what a marvelous event to witness.
6. Zodiac
A classically crafted true-crime film, surely director David Fincher's best, that is also one of the year's most sprawling, intricate, and factually minute. It's the type of movie that follows three men – Robert Graysmith (Jake Gyllenhaal), David Toschi (Mark Ruffalo), and Paul Avery (Robert Downey Jr.) – obsessed with the Zodiac Killer during his spree of the late '60s and early '70s but also the type that has the frame of mind to keep the cameras rolling on into the later decades, capturing each man's own struggle with that Great Unsolved Mystery; the sly joke is that these later years would behold the Age of Information and the birth of the very technology that made catching Zodiac thirty years ago impossible, and so utterly haunting. Fincher himself employs none of the ghastly overheatedness that pervaded Panic Room nor any of the gimmicky gritty atmosphere of Se7en (except perhaps in those later Gyllenhaal scenes); instead he utilizes a beautifully simple style, full of lush photography and home to James Vanderbilt's clever script, that gives the mystery of Zodiac room to breathe, and the viewer room to be haunted.
7. The Bourne Ultimatum
There's a reason director Paul Greengrass has made it onto my year-end list for two years running, and it has a little something to do with the way Greengrass took a seemingly rote franchise and re-invigorated – in the process re-invigorating critics bemoaning the popcorn-thriller and audiences bemoaning the un-amusing thriller. Certainly, after the director was done carving up the screen with his signature (and breathlessly genius) shaky camera work and quick-cut editing, The Bourne Ultimatum was neither dumb nor boring; and as a final installment of a nearly-great trilogy of chase films, it delivered entirely and completely for its two-hour running time. Also of note: the filmmaker's prodigious skill at making bland conceits thrilling experiences (as last year's United 93 was); Tony Gilroy's blossoming talents with the ever more complicated narrative; and the cast's steely determinations, of which David Straithairn was the cold-hearted stand-out.
8. Fay Grim
A crucially, and critically, misunderstood gem; writer-director Hal Hartley's bizarre mash-up of tangled-noir romance and satirical craftsmanship swept me along with its wacky camera angles and so-sly-it-isn't-but-still-is wink at every film convention Hartley himself was simultaneously paying tribute to and terrorizing. The plot: Fay Grim (Parker Posey, a delectably frazzled siren) must discover some secrets for some government for her imprisoned brother (James Urbaniak) to help her wayward son (Liam Aiken). Along the way terrorists are encountered, mad-men with slick charms are taken prisoner by said terrorists, and friendships are re-kindled (again, the terrorists). If it all sounds too zany, too "cutesy-indie", my discovery runs counter to that: Fay Grim is a delight of deadpan comedy (kudos to the marvelously game cast), a skilled twist on the twistiest of genres, and in the end, a film I could actually care about. To me, perhaps even more than Juno (which I haven't had the pleasure to see yet), it may be the year's Great Indie Film; treasure it.
9. Sicko
Michael Moore it seems, just like good wine or cheese, can only get better with age – oh, and more crafty and heart-wrenching too. In his screwball-outrage attack on American health insurance, politicized documentarian Moore summons all his vast powers of zany black humor and graceful splicing to produce a work that will leave the audience needing a doctor; that is, sickened and hurt at the diseased bureaucracy America lets prevail everyday on its own doorstep. Yet the true up-lift of Sicko isn't in the incendiary way Moore destroys the healthcare industry, it's in his contemplative and logical final thesis – that if other, "lesser" nations have found plausible alternatives (e.g. Britain, France, Canada, and Cuba), then why can't we? – and the catharsis he allows himself, a wiser and more thoughtful filmmaker, and the audience to draw from that.
10. Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
The ironic contradiction at the heart of Sweeney Todd is that, usually, a very good movie begets some level of enjoyment (hey, even The Departed, with its brain-busting climax, thrilled me) in its audience; Todd, yet another stage-adaptation (this time, by Gothic maestro Tim Burton – a vastly underrated director), does occasionally delight – the sweepingly cynical "A Little Priest"; the minuscule opener "No Place Like London" – but so much more of its charge comes from the tragic melodrama at the core of the film. Namely, there's a murderous barber (Johnny Depp, in grand emotive form) out for revenge against a conniving judge (Alan Rickman, trilled to his own sarcastic baritone) who gets involved with a cannibalistic, pragmatic pie-maker (Helena Bonham Carter…who can act!) while slashing the throats of his own customers. It is, obviously, violent, disturbing, and tragic stuff; and the biggest surprise isn't that Burton & Co. manage to (mostly) pull off Sondheim's deepest-black production, it's that the talent involved – from the actors, to the director (finally, perhaps, getting wide-scale award recognition), to the legendary composer/lyricist himself (who wrote some of his most operatic, heart-rending, and bleakly funny material for Sweeney) – deliver the top of their game. The result can only be this final product, a film to chill and shake you.
The Top Two Television Shows of 2007:
1. 30 Rock
Like being plugged into a line of pure laughing gas for thirty minutes a week, 30 Rock – Tina Fey's improbably enjoyable sitcom about the travails behind a hit sketch show – leaves one feeling giddy and a little unsteady ("Can a sitcom really be making me feel this happy?!") but nonetheless helplessly addicted. Alec Baldwin, as NBC executive Jack Donaghy, stands alone as his own hit of pure glee; and definite, minutes-long applause are in order for the sheer amount of high-wire witty, silly, energy that is packed behind each minute of Rock by Fey and her writers. How nice it is to sit one night a week on a couch with friends or family or a nice cup of tea and laugh, pure and simple, along with a show that can laugh at itself.
2. Friday Night Lights
Sure, it bogged itself down for nearly all of this first-part of the season's run with an uncouth storyline about an attempted-rape-turned-murder while also bogging down two of its most beloved characters – Tyra Collette (Adrianne Palicki) and Landry Clarke (Jesse Plemons); and sure, I'll give you that Friday Night Lights' secret weapon (or one of them at least), that of intimate and heartfelt character interaction between friends (Landry and golden-boy QB1 best friend Matt Saracen – an anguished, if newly underused, Zach Gilford) and family (Kyle Chandler, as Coach Taylor, with Connie Britton, as his delightfully real wife), was nary given a chance to shine these last episodes. And, ok, it wasn't as quintessentially stirring as its first season; but Lights – though it had entire episodes that rang false, and a few too many odd character turns – still retained its awe-inspiring power to shake a viewer, to shake me, and leave one breathless at its unique brand of power: to transcend its confinement, and give life – nay, soul – to its very own small-town discontent. More flawed than I like, but still more gracefully true than most everything else airing.
The Top Two CD's of 2007:
1. Lily Allen: Alright, Still
Though it became a rave-sensation late last year as a British import, Lily Allen's debut album was officially released stateside in January (making it to my list just under the wire, thank goodness) and just as blogs the Internet over went crazy last winter at Allen's cutting, hip-hop influenced lyrics and musical fusions, twice that many came to adore here over these last seasons. Alright, Still is a spiky debut, teetering (in theory) on precociousness, and Allen is by no means a vocal goddess; but she is a talented singer-songwriter and her affinity for warping and curving all manner of musical styles to fit her decidedly unique, and sassy, aesthetic serves her delectably well. Put on "Smile" when you feel self-righteousness; "LDN" for when you're feeling worldly; "Alfie" when you hate to love your family; "Not Big" and "Friend of Mine" for when romance has you down; and Alright, Still when you need to be reminded what true, melodic, smart and catchy talent looks like.
2. Miranda Lambert: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend
Who says there can't be a great country album this year – one of the best in fact? Quite a lot of people, it seems; and so it has always been for Miranda Lambert, whose debut in 2005 was snubbed by country radio but still became a hit. But, if nothing else, Lambert's album proves that her pre-emptive snub by – gasp! – elitist country fans was a huge mistake. On Crazy Ex-Girlfriend the once dreamy-eyed romantic ("Me and Charlie Talking") goes wistful, introspective, fiery, and oh so harmonic. Her second album is a concept album about the concept of small-town romance and the women it affects, and it does the astounding (and, to me, unthinkable): it makes neo-feminism sexy. Lambert, who co-wrote the majority of the songs, views these gals through a multi-faceted prism, be it angry vigilantism (the opener, "Gunpowder and Lead"), sarcastic observance ("Famous in a Small Town"), or (most consistently) the twin nature of wishful pining: regret and desire (lust?). Yet in her hands, these last two feelings go through a re-birth, a cauterization of the heart and are re-born into a catalyst of open-hearted loaner freedom (the Patty Griffin cover "Getting Ready"). Still, she can wax sadly truthful, and two of her best songs – "More Like Her" (an ambiguous and knotty rumination on a love triangle) and "Desperation" (which features the year's most melancholic, powerful refrain: Complicated words slippin' off your tongue and ain't one of them the truth/ I'm still desperate for you) – finally prove it without a doubt: she isn't just this year's Country Best, she may be its best for years to come.
*Note: my list, obviously, has its flaws. I haven't seen half the stuff that is currently setting the award-season abuzz (e.g. Atonement, Into the Wild, Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, etc.), and I can only watch and listen to so much music and television (plus: I don't get HBO, Showtime, and other more prestigious channels with more prestigious fare). I will eventually get to all of this stuff and you will surely know if I've overlooked something. Until then, this is all I have; tell me what I did wrong.
I'm Not There: A
In one of many deep-dish symbolic explosions in Todd Haynes' rapturously inventive biopic I'm Not There, Arthur Rimbaud (Ben Whishaw) - photographed in graniest black & white - rattles off the six key secrets to master when in hiding...all while images of Jude Quinn (Cate Blanchett), Billy (Richard Gere), Robbie (Heath Ledger), and Woodie (Marcus Carl Franklin) go rattling by; each actor interpreting their figment of legendary musician Bob Dylan interpreting the particular secret revealed as the camera slows on their performance (while, simultaneously, Whishaw himself pulls off a similar feat). If it sounds too conceptual to work, the intoxicating surprise is that it does - thanks in no small part to Haynes himself, whose artistic sleight-of-hand allows numerous more occasions such as these to illuminate a film about a man persistently casting shadows.
Such is the texture of the film though: it searches and it rhapsodizes with a luminous visual mastery; it haunts and occasionally it saddens; and every so often it stuns you with the very transcendent rightness such a gifted director as this one can pull off when he, say, situates an identity-exploring journalist in the middle of late-60's Dylan performing "Ballad of a Thin Man".
These last moments of epiphany occur only a handful of times in such well-formed, piercing doses (such as when Billy gazes over an empty valley, ruminating on this-or-that War that may have inspired his dormant protesting; or when Jude Quinn gazes at Jesus on the cross and, with just the slightest touch of deepest depression, slurs out "Do some of your early stuff!") but instead of seeming as a flaw, these work as the highest points in a never-ending stream of conscious; the sort of stunning, sharp, inquisitive work the greatest documentarians aspire to and (apparently) only someone as willing to bend the rules of fiction, reality, "reality", and the poetic English language as Todd Haynes could have achieved. The result is a magnificent high for cineastes and Dylan-lovers alike.
Still sound sort of like homework to you casual viewers? Well then let me start at the beginning, with Woodie. Embodied by Franklin with a natural grace and humor, his segments serve as the foundation for the early minutes of the film, as we hear his story - grave and intriguing. First he was talented, then he was a failed carnie, then he hobo'ed, then he fell, was saved, was saddened, and hobo'ed again. Did I mention he was only eleven? And black? Again, if Haynes' sheer audacity sounds laughable, his dramatic conceit never strays from his intended vision and the work of this early Woody Guthrie groupie - "The Fake" as the film's narrator says - gives a reasoned flavor to the later, more theatrical incarnations of this once most modest of troubadors.
Flash forward (or rather, around - since the film would rather splice its characters together in a narrative circle than a chronological line) to Jack (Christian Bale), a NYC activist seemingly sprung from all the wholesome potential of Woodie himself; then it's over to Robbie, the movie star of a '65 film about Jack's rise to stardom in the folk movement; then we're back to Arthur, as he stares into the camera, answering questions from a disembodied voice, with a gaze that matches his words: calmly disaffected, sincerly insincere, and true in only the way that Dylan himself was. From Arthur we leap to Jude Quinn as he premieres his greatest artistic leap: going from acoustic to electric, and the fall-out from fans that necesitates. That collapse gives insight into another - the slow destruction of Robbie's marriage to Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg); and from the drained voice-over of Legdger we are introduced to Billy, an outlaw holed up in a dying town full of circus workers always playing dress-up (need I spell out the allegory there?).
If my verbose description gives you a sense of the heady connections that I'm Not There lyricizes then more power to you, but if not then the film more than compensates (with Haynes serving up with the same sort of intensity he brought to Far From Heaven five years ago). It weaves a mosaic, a kaleidoscope dream, a fantasia of personality, an intricate dance of delusion & illusion, and an elusively sad composite work on the most prolific poet of our time; most grandly of all though, it accomplishes this all on a level of deeply satisfying power and magnetism. I could no less look away than I suspect Dylan could from creating himself more than these seven times over.
Which is all kind of the point right? As a musician, Bob Dylan certainly inspires the film, sets it aflame with passion even, but as a person? Some may be tempted to call the lack of articulate verbal explanation in I'm Not There "opaque" but I disagree: the mesmerizing currents of personality that are evoked in these 135-minutes more than answer any questions because they eliminate the need for them. See, Todd Haynes may have set out to create a rumination on the life & times of Bob Dylan, but he came away with far more; what he's created may lack the same sensational flow of emotion that graced Heaven but it's satisfying in almost every other way. It floats on the raspy visions of the folk legend's music; it savors the work of its own muses (Blanchett, wrapped up in a private breakdown, gives a great, fizzy, prophetic performance); and, above all, it treasures its audience - never losing a virgin to the ways of the music world, or an audiophile new to film.
It sermonizes with passion, zeal, and terrifyingly good directorial skill. It illuminates by layers the creation of a creation; the man created from a myth. And it beckons us all on for the ride, to dive into the flow - the visionary, holy, "meaninglessness" of Dylan's images - and discover Dylan as Dylan has always discovered himself. It is truly a journey worth taking.
Such is the texture of the film though: it searches and it rhapsodizes with a luminous visual mastery; it haunts and occasionally it saddens; and every so often it stuns you with the very transcendent rightness such a gifted director as this one can pull off when he, say, situates an identity-exploring journalist in the middle of late-60's Dylan performing "Ballad of a Thin Man".
These last moments of epiphany occur only a handful of times in such well-formed, piercing doses (such as when Billy gazes over an empty valley, ruminating on this-or-that War that may have inspired his dormant protesting; or when Jude Quinn gazes at Jesus on the cross and, with just the slightest touch of deepest depression, slurs out "Do some of your early stuff!") but instead of seeming as a flaw, these work as the highest points in a never-ending stream of conscious; the sort of stunning, sharp, inquisitive work the greatest documentarians aspire to and (apparently) only someone as willing to bend the rules of fiction, reality, "reality", and the poetic English language as Todd Haynes could have achieved. The result is a magnificent high for cineastes and Dylan-lovers alike.
Still sound sort of like homework to you casual viewers? Well then let me start at the beginning, with Woodie. Embodied by Franklin with a natural grace and humor, his segments serve as the foundation for the early minutes of the film, as we hear his story - grave and intriguing. First he was talented, then he was a failed carnie, then he hobo'ed, then he fell, was saved, was saddened, and hobo'ed again. Did I mention he was only eleven? And black? Again, if Haynes' sheer audacity sounds laughable, his dramatic conceit never strays from his intended vision and the work of this early Woody Guthrie groupie - "The Fake" as the film's narrator says - gives a reasoned flavor to the later, more theatrical incarnations of this once most modest of troubadors.
Flash forward (or rather, around - since the film would rather splice its characters together in a narrative circle than a chronological line) to Jack (Christian Bale), a NYC activist seemingly sprung from all the wholesome potential of Woodie himself; then it's over to Robbie, the movie star of a '65 film about Jack's rise to stardom in the folk movement; then we're back to Arthur, as he stares into the camera, answering questions from a disembodied voice, with a gaze that matches his words: calmly disaffected, sincerly insincere, and true in only the way that Dylan himself was. From Arthur we leap to Jude Quinn as he premieres his greatest artistic leap: going from acoustic to electric, and the fall-out from fans that necesitates. That collapse gives insight into another - the slow destruction of Robbie's marriage to Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg); and from the drained voice-over of Legdger we are introduced to Billy, an outlaw holed up in a dying town full of circus workers always playing dress-up (need I spell out the allegory there?).
If my verbose description gives you a sense of the heady connections that I'm Not There lyricizes then more power to you, but if not then the film more than compensates (with Haynes serving up with the same sort of intensity he brought to Far From Heaven five years ago). It weaves a mosaic, a kaleidoscope dream, a fantasia of personality, an intricate dance of delusion & illusion, and an elusively sad composite work on the most prolific poet of our time; most grandly of all though, it accomplishes this all on a level of deeply satisfying power and magnetism. I could no less look away than I suspect Dylan could from creating himself more than these seven times over.
Which is all kind of the point right? As a musician, Bob Dylan certainly inspires the film, sets it aflame with passion even, but as a person? Some may be tempted to call the lack of articulate verbal explanation in I'm Not There "opaque" but I disagree: the mesmerizing currents of personality that are evoked in these 135-minutes more than answer any questions because they eliminate the need for them. See, Todd Haynes may have set out to create a rumination on the life & times of Bob Dylan, but he came away with far more; what he's created may lack the same sensational flow of emotion that graced Heaven but it's satisfying in almost every other way. It floats on the raspy visions of the folk legend's music; it savors the work of its own muses (Blanchett, wrapped up in a private breakdown, gives a great, fizzy, prophetic performance); and, above all, it treasures its audience - never losing a virgin to the ways of the music world, or an audiophile new to film.
It sermonizes with passion, zeal, and terrifyingly good directorial skill. It illuminates by layers the creation of a creation; the man created from a myth. And it beckons us all on for the ride, to dive into the flow - the visionary, holy, "meaninglessness" of Dylan's images - and discover Dylan as Dylan has always discovered himself. It is truly a journey worth taking.
The Golden Compass: A-
To those who keep complaining about the theological subtext of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy (of which The Golden Compass is the first installment), I steadfastly reply: get over yourselves; have some fun. Ok, sure, if you're on the lookout for some menacing "God isn't real!" lecture lurking within the pages of Pullman's (an avowed atheist/agnostic) prose, you might pick up crumbs within this first book; but those crumbs are far out weighed by the author's neat prose, brilliant use of perspective, subversive imagination, and dry wit. And certainly for myself (an avowed reader/critic), all these elements add up to one fun time.
But, of course, let's start with the controversial stuff. First off, what it amounts to in Compass is very little considering the brouhaha surrounding the soon-released film adaptation; sure there is a vast, powerful Church in this other world (one vaguely resembling our own, minus roughly a century or so and plus a lot of panache) that seems almost entirely malevolent; sure, too, the main character asks at one point (in refernce to Adam & Eve) "Yes, but wasn't that all just a sort of fairy tale?" But beyond that, very little else.
So what truly remains in these 400-pages beyond an antagonistic Church and a doubtful protagonist? The real workings of a real fantasist. Pullman, previously the purveyour of more contemporary young adult fiction, loses himself and the reader in a clever, subtle, re-working of our world. The new additions include daemons - the physical manifestion of a person's soul (aka, a sort of familiar that takes various shapes depending on personality) - witches, talking polar bears, and experimental theology. This last bit is surely the author's most daring step, and it pays off big in the first novel. As it seems in Lyra's (our hero) world, the Church pre-emptively captured the scientific lightning that was about to strike with the Renaissance by aligning themselves with all these new-fangled "elementary particles" (read: atoms), etc. As such, all scientific discoveries flow through the Church, and their doctrines in turn reflect the glory of science as the Glory of God. As a critical reader, I couldn't have been more delighted at this invention. As a mere human, prone to lose oneself in their books, I fell quite in love with the shadowy mysteries of this vast beauracracy (no longer headed by a Pope, mind you, but re-worked into the Magisterium, a lose working group of "councils, commitees, and the like").
So what mysteries do they portend? Well, the coming of Dust for one - a substance that attaches to a child once they hit puberty, and the cause of much concern for the "all-knowing" Church. Another puzzle they bring is the blossoming of Lyra's destiny - and how she is to "end destiny". Sound impossible? Not so when you have a compass-like alethiometer that sees the answer, if you can see the question; an armored guard of a bear named Iorek; a gyptian consort who lead you to the far North to rescue kidnapped children and father's alike; and a daemon who'd follow you to another world.
Which, in some canny sense, Lyra is. See, by quietly playing up a child's sense of wonder and dread, then intermingling it with Lyra's street-urchin skill, Pullman keeps the reader tethered to a world that unfolds with all the blazing new passion as Lyra herself experiences. Another bonus? It allows quick, surprising turns of plot and character to manifest in barely a pages' time (due again to Lyra's undoubtedly weak grasp of "truth" in her world's time of so-called "high political tension"). It is quite the clever stroke to create such a perspective for the reader; and more lithe still to never have it feel claustrophobic or improbable.
One great benefit against this last thought is in the characters created to populate Lyra's Earth: there is Mrs. Coulter - a charming manipulator, Lord Asriel - a prideful explorer and Lyra's uncle, John Faa - the absurdly wise king of the gyptians, and Serafina Pekkala - a seemingly ageless witch queen who still loves her human savior of 40-years. As is obvious, these are fascinating creations and more fascinating still because we can hardly guess what they truly want, or who they are (a surprising betrayal near book's end will have you recast your entire alleigances). Due to this, and among various other attributes, one must invariably draw the conclusion: The Golden Compass is conceived as fantasia, but cast in a cold, diamond-hard die giving it both the inventions to support dis-belief, and the suspenseful desire to do just the opposite (I dare anyone not to be swept into a desperate thrist for discovery when it comes to the mysteries of Dust, the Aurora, and the Magisterium). Who'd have guessed all of it would come from a "non-believer"?
But, of course, let's start with the controversial stuff. First off, what it amounts to in Compass is very little considering the brouhaha surrounding the soon-released film adaptation; sure there is a vast, powerful Church in this other world (one vaguely resembling our own, minus roughly a century or so and plus a lot of panache) that seems almost entirely malevolent; sure, too, the main character asks at one point (in refernce to Adam & Eve) "Yes, but wasn't that all just a sort of fairy tale?" But beyond that, very little else.
So what truly remains in these 400-pages beyond an antagonistic Church and a doubtful protagonist? The real workings of a real fantasist. Pullman, previously the purveyour of more contemporary young adult fiction, loses himself and the reader in a clever, subtle, re-working of our world. The new additions include daemons - the physical manifestion of a person's soul (aka, a sort of familiar that takes various shapes depending on personality) - witches, talking polar bears, and experimental theology. This last bit is surely the author's most daring step, and it pays off big in the first novel. As it seems in Lyra's (our hero) world, the Church pre-emptively captured the scientific lightning that was about to strike with the Renaissance by aligning themselves with all these new-fangled "elementary particles" (read: atoms), etc. As such, all scientific discoveries flow through the Church, and their doctrines in turn reflect the glory of science as the Glory of God. As a critical reader, I couldn't have been more delighted at this invention. As a mere human, prone to lose oneself in their books, I fell quite in love with the shadowy mysteries of this vast beauracracy (no longer headed by a Pope, mind you, but re-worked into the Magisterium, a lose working group of "councils, commitees, and the like").
So what mysteries do they portend? Well, the coming of Dust for one - a substance that attaches to a child once they hit puberty, and the cause of much concern for the "all-knowing" Church. Another puzzle they bring is the blossoming of Lyra's destiny - and how she is to "end destiny". Sound impossible? Not so when you have a compass-like alethiometer that sees the answer, if you can see the question; an armored guard of a bear named Iorek; a gyptian consort who lead you to the far North to rescue kidnapped children and father's alike; and a daemon who'd follow you to another world.
Which, in some canny sense, Lyra is. See, by quietly playing up a child's sense of wonder and dread, then intermingling it with Lyra's street-urchin skill, Pullman keeps the reader tethered to a world that unfolds with all the blazing new passion as Lyra herself experiences. Another bonus? It allows quick, surprising turns of plot and character to manifest in barely a pages' time (due again to Lyra's undoubtedly weak grasp of "truth" in her world's time of so-called "high political tension"). It is quite the clever stroke to create such a perspective for the reader; and more lithe still to never have it feel claustrophobic or improbable.
One great benefit against this last thought is in the characters created to populate Lyra's Earth: there is Mrs. Coulter - a charming manipulator, Lord Asriel - a prideful explorer and Lyra's uncle, John Faa - the absurdly wise king of the gyptians, and Serafina Pekkala - a seemingly ageless witch queen who still loves her human savior of 40-years. As is obvious, these are fascinating creations and more fascinating still because we can hardly guess what they truly want, or who they are (a surprising betrayal near book's end will have you recast your entire alleigances). Due to this, and among various other attributes, one must invariably draw the conclusion: The Golden Compass is conceived as fantasia, but cast in a cold, diamond-hard die giving it both the inventions to support dis-belief, and the suspenseful desire to do just the opposite (I dare anyone not to be swept into a desperate thrist for discovery when it comes to the mysteries of Dust, the Aurora, and the Magisterium). Who'd have guessed all of it would come from a "non-believer"?
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