Charlie Kaufman’s legendary screenplays for Being John Malkovich and Adaptation dealt with the travails of an insecure, self-defined genius. They also hinted at the egotism of their creator, whose central characters were obvious stand-ins for the writer himself.
His past scripts implied a unique, self-important mind, and Kaufman’s directorial debut Synecdoche, New York seals the deal. It’s Kaufman on Kaufman, and the result is a brilliant, narcissistic portrait of an artist in decline.
Synecdoche features Philip Seymour Hoffman in another schlumpy role as Caden Cotard, a hypochondriac playwright whose increasing illnesses may or may not be legit.
Caden’s true sickness is his impossible devotion to women. At the outset, he fails to meet the expectations of his icy wife Adele (Catherine Keener, playing a middle-aged version of her character from Malkovich), who’s more interested in getting stoned with her friend Maria (Jennifer Jason Leigh) than she is attending his premieres.
It’s clear that Caden can’t possibly keep her, and soon after she leaves, his sickness overwhelms him – even as he wins a MacArthur Genius Grant – and in his grief he commits to writing a play that will boil human tragedy down to its essence.
As the play’s creation drags on, Caden wanders from relationship to relationship, always winding up more in love with the women of his past than with his current flames. Meanwhile, he becomes more and more unhinged, his life and his art becoming fused to the point of insanity.
Synecdoche presents its story from Caden’s viewpoint, and the result is a series of intricate, interlocking absurdities – a celluloid Escher painting. The film’s references to Dostoyevsky and Kafka are no joke, and they aren’t simply homage; Kaufman wants to be them.
Of course, greatness is a slippery thing, and every time it’s in the movie’s sights, Kaufman’s self-importance allows it to escape: The movie’s foremost impression is that it’s damned hard to be as clever as Charlie Kaufman.
But clever he is, and Synecdoche is often breathtaking. It encroaches on, and eventually overtakes, Woody Allen’s thematic turf. He tackles infidelity, mortality and the ulterior motives of artists – all Allen staples, but unlike Allen, Kaufman doesn’t filter them through the lens of other movies.
Unfortunately, Synecdoche also proves that Kaufman’s last screenplay, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, his most user-friendly work, was an anomaly. I’m sure he now considers it juvenilia, but it was, for all its indulgences, his best film and a wonderful romance that didn’t revolve solely around a brooding Kaufman substitute.
Despite its failings, Synecdoche is still one hell of a fever dream. It’s a dizzying step down from Sunshine, and it doesn’t care what its audience thinks, but it’s also some kind of surreal tour de force – as singular a vision as the movies have seen all year.
Rating: ****
Friday, December 12, 2008
JCVD
Over the years, karate champ-turned-action icon Jean-Claude Van Damme has been alternately vilified and ignored by the moviegoing public – and with good reason. Dating back to his Hollywood breakthrough Bloodsport, the muscle-bound knucklehead has displayed zero talent, taste or even common sense, and it’s been ages since one of his films even merited theatrical release.
But if the semi-biographical JCVD is to be believed, Van Damme is in reality a savvy sellout, reluctantly wandering the B-movie wilderness while seeking a legitimate career.
JCVD offers a compelling glimpse into the man behind all those roundhouse kicks. Van Damme (playing himself) is insulted by an inept director, patronized by his agent and irritated by zealous fans. Worst of all, he is rejected by his young daughter, for whom he is locked in a hopeless custody battle.
Our depressed hero stops at a Belgian bank for some much-needed cash when he is taken hostage by a trio of dimwit stickup men. The local cops, having mistaken Van Damme as an armed robber, try to negotiate the release of the other captives while the actor begs the actual villains for mercy.
The movie’s premise – beefcake celebrity becomes helpless bystander – is priceless, but director Mabrouk El Mechri quickly steers the movie into shallow waters. While the criminals battle with Van Damme, El Mechri stages a series of intentionally incompetent action scenes. The film is trying to target an already silly genre, and it never rises above the obvious; the movie wants to be ironic but ends up as mere spoof.
Meanwhile, Van Damme tries to erase the vacant caricature that has become his stock-in-trade, and more often than not hits a bulls-eye. He gives a surprisingly nuanced performance, and the movie’s quietest scenes take full advantage of his unlikely skill. It’s a shame there aren’t more of them; the star is fully prepared to admit his personal shortcomings, but El Mechri is more interested in comic action than psychological heft.
There is, however, one powerhouse scene with more punch than Van Damme has mustered in any thriller, a long soliloquy in which the star discusses his youthful ambition, subsequent drug abuse and ultimate failure to achieve anything of significance. This (probably improvised) speech is more than a little hammy, but there’s still something significant going on – the revelation of a broken psyche – that managed to put a lump in this old cynic’s throat.
According to the movie website IMDb.com, Van Damme is currently working on something called Universal Soldier III – another dopey project that costars the equally pitiful Dolph Lundgren. I’m sure the job will compensate its aging star quite well, but after the soulful confessions of JCVD, seeing him retreat to the world of trash seems very, very sad.
Rating: ***
But if the semi-biographical JCVD is to be believed, Van Damme is in reality a savvy sellout, reluctantly wandering the B-movie wilderness while seeking a legitimate career.
JCVD offers a compelling glimpse into the man behind all those roundhouse kicks. Van Damme (playing himself) is insulted by an inept director, patronized by his agent and irritated by zealous fans. Worst of all, he is rejected by his young daughter, for whom he is locked in a hopeless custody battle.
Our depressed hero stops at a Belgian bank for some much-needed cash when he is taken hostage by a trio of dimwit stickup men. The local cops, having mistaken Van Damme as an armed robber, try to negotiate the release of the other captives while the actor begs the actual villains for mercy.
The movie’s premise – beefcake celebrity becomes helpless bystander – is priceless, but director Mabrouk El Mechri quickly steers the movie into shallow waters. While the criminals battle with Van Damme, El Mechri stages a series of intentionally incompetent action scenes. The film is trying to target an already silly genre, and it never rises above the obvious; the movie wants to be ironic but ends up as mere spoof.
Meanwhile, Van Damme tries to erase the vacant caricature that has become his stock-in-trade, and more often than not hits a bulls-eye. He gives a surprisingly nuanced performance, and the movie’s quietest scenes take full advantage of his unlikely skill. It’s a shame there aren’t more of them; the star is fully prepared to admit his personal shortcomings, but El Mechri is more interested in comic action than psychological heft.
There is, however, one powerhouse scene with more punch than Van Damme has mustered in any thriller, a long soliloquy in which the star discusses his youthful ambition, subsequent drug abuse and ultimate failure to achieve anything of significance. This (probably improvised) speech is more than a little hammy, but there’s still something significant going on – the revelation of a broken psyche – that managed to put a lump in this old cynic’s throat.
According to the movie website IMDb.com, Van Damme is currently working on something called Universal Soldier III – another dopey project that costars the equally pitiful Dolph Lundgren. I’m sure the job will compensate its aging star quite well, but after the soulful confessions of JCVD, seeing him retreat to the world of trash seems very, very sad.
Rating: ***
Breakfast with Scot
If David Sedaris rewrote the script for Kramer vs. Kramer, the result would look a lot like Breakfast with Scot, the new Canadian film about a flamboyant 11-year old who is adopted by a gay couple. It’s a predictable heart-tugger that, like Sedaris’s later memoirs, comes off as sweet, unassuming – and more than a little fraudulent.
Eric (Tom Cavanagh, of TV’s Ed) and Sam (Ben Shenkman), are a professional couple who quietly try to shield their relationship from view. Eric, a former hockey player who now works as a sports broadcaster, is a closet case whose greatest fear is that the athletes he covers will discover his secret. Sam is the more open of the two, though he soldiers on in support of Eric’s need for privacy.
The couple’s attempts to play straight are compromised when Sam’s brother Billy (Colin Cunningham) skips town, precipitating his girlfriend’s fatal drug overdose. The girlfriend’s son Scot, who lives for swishy clothes and outlandish accessories – he’s a moppet drag queen in waiting – winds up as Eric and Sam’s temporary ward.
Scot starts out as a royal pain in Eric’s ass, but, with clockwork efficiency, the two eventually connect, finding common bonds via hockey, shopping and food.
Breakfast isn’t any kind of breakthrough in terms of plot; About a Boy and the aforementioned Kramer treaded the same ground. But there is joy in the performances, particularly from Bernett, who must set some kind of record for bravery in child acting. Cavanagh has excellent comic timing even when the gags fall flat, and Shenkman makes a fine impression as the Eric’s quietly decent partner. And props to director Laurie Lynd for presenting an openly gay kid, and for having him teach his ashamed father figures how to come out of the closet.
But Breakfast does have a curious ambivalence about its characters’ intimacy. Eric doesn’t dare display physical affection toward Sam in public, which is in keeping with his character, but even within their home, the pair rarely embrace; Lynd, so terrified of alienating her audience, refuses them even a simple private kiss. Toward the beginning, Scot is allowed to kiss whomever he wants, but Eric and Sam quickly swat him down and clumsily teach him about social protocol.
Through its protagonists, Breakfast teaches acceptance of being gay – but not too gay – and many of the movie’s plot points are exercises in public normalization. It’s a pleasant enough diversion, and it works as pure fluff, but it doesn’t stretch much further than an episode of Will and Grace.
Rating: ***
Eric (Tom Cavanagh, of TV’s Ed) and Sam (Ben Shenkman), are a professional couple who quietly try to shield their relationship from view. Eric, a former hockey player who now works as a sports broadcaster, is a closet case whose greatest fear is that the athletes he covers will discover his secret. Sam is the more open of the two, though he soldiers on in support of Eric’s need for privacy.
The couple’s attempts to play straight are compromised when Sam’s brother Billy (Colin Cunningham) skips town, precipitating his girlfriend’s fatal drug overdose. The girlfriend’s son Scot, who lives for swishy clothes and outlandish accessories – he’s a moppet drag queen in waiting – winds up as Eric and Sam’s temporary ward.
Scot starts out as a royal pain in Eric’s ass, but, with clockwork efficiency, the two eventually connect, finding common bonds via hockey, shopping and food.
Breakfast isn’t any kind of breakthrough in terms of plot; About a Boy and the aforementioned Kramer treaded the same ground. But there is joy in the performances, particularly from Bernett, who must set some kind of record for bravery in child acting. Cavanagh has excellent comic timing even when the gags fall flat, and Shenkman makes a fine impression as the Eric’s quietly decent partner. And props to director Laurie Lynd for presenting an openly gay kid, and for having him teach his ashamed father figures how to come out of the closet.
But Breakfast does have a curious ambivalence about its characters’ intimacy. Eric doesn’t dare display physical affection toward Sam in public, which is in keeping with his character, but even within their home, the pair rarely embrace; Lynd, so terrified of alienating her audience, refuses them even a simple private kiss. Toward the beginning, Scot is allowed to kiss whomever he wants, but Eric and Sam quickly swat him down and clumsily teach him about social protocol.
Through its protagonists, Breakfast teaches acceptance of being gay – but not too gay – and many of the movie’s plot points are exercises in public normalization. It’s a pleasant enough diversion, and it works as pure fluff, but it doesn’t stretch much further than an episode of Will and Grace.
Rating: ***
Ashes of Time Redux
Up until now, the little-seen 1994 Wong Kar Wai film Ashes of Time was known to aficionados only through a poorly digitized DVD.
No more. As an older and wiser filmmaker, Wong has re-edited his admittedly sloppy original, added a lovely cello score by Yo-Yo Ma and adjusted the coloration to add more emotional power to the landscapes. The result: Ashes of Time Redux, an almost-masterpiece whose newfound majesty rivals the best of the director’s later films.
Ashes rotates a number of characters in and out of its narrative, but its primary protagonist is Ouyang Feng (Leslie Cheung), a heartsick loner who has dealt with the abandonment of his lover (Maggie Cheung) by surrendering himself to the desert. Feng makes his living as a gruesome middleman; he hires professional swordsmen to assassinate the enemies of vengeful locals and pockets the difference.
Feng is approached by Murong Yang (Bridgette Lin) and asked to arrange the killing of Feng’s old friend Huang Yaoshi (Tony Leung Ka Fai) as revenge for jilting Yang’s sister. Feng’s ambivalence forces Yang away.
The balance of the film, which includes several doomed requests from mercenaries and civilians alike, meanders aimlessly, but always returns to Feng’s solitude as both his damnation and saving grace.
It is impossible to tell much more because Ashes, by design, defies encapsulation. The film’s style is bound to the personalities of its characters, who are often haunted by hallucinatory visions. As a result, Ashes’s plot runs wild, but Wong never loses control; like Feng, he’s a master craftsman who doesn’t apologize for his limitations.
There are narrative circles and dead ends, but somehow it doesn’t matter; the movie adds up to something far larger than its individual scenes. What that something is is wonderfully open-ended. Is it a story of unrequited love? An existential dilemma dressed up as a Kurosawa western? A nihilistic denouncement of humanity? Wong lets the viewers decide for themselves – an act of artistic bravery that belies his relative inexperience (Ashes was only his fourth directorial effort).
Fair warning: Despite the film’s dynamo potential, don’t expect a chopsocky kaleidoscope like Zhang Yimou’s Hero and House of Flying Daggers. Like Sergio Leone, Wong prefers to tease his audience with long, languorous takes and then follow them with quicksilver violence. The film’s few short battles show the heroes as powerful but human; they’re miles away from Zhang’s godlike archetypes.
Their humanity is entirely in keeping with the remainder of Wong’s catalogue, which has always focused on vulnerable romantics victimized by fate. Ashes’s true power comes not from the aggression of its characters but from the tenderness of their creator.
Rating: ****
No more. As an older and wiser filmmaker, Wong has re-edited his admittedly sloppy original, added a lovely cello score by Yo-Yo Ma and adjusted the coloration to add more emotional power to the landscapes. The result: Ashes of Time Redux, an almost-masterpiece whose newfound majesty rivals the best of the director’s later films.
Ashes rotates a number of characters in and out of its narrative, but its primary protagonist is Ouyang Feng (Leslie Cheung), a heartsick loner who has dealt with the abandonment of his lover (Maggie Cheung) by surrendering himself to the desert. Feng makes his living as a gruesome middleman; he hires professional swordsmen to assassinate the enemies of vengeful locals and pockets the difference.
Feng is approached by Murong Yang (Bridgette Lin) and asked to arrange the killing of Feng’s old friend Huang Yaoshi (Tony Leung Ka Fai) as revenge for jilting Yang’s sister. Feng’s ambivalence forces Yang away.
The balance of the film, which includes several doomed requests from mercenaries and civilians alike, meanders aimlessly, but always returns to Feng’s solitude as both his damnation and saving grace.
It is impossible to tell much more because Ashes, by design, defies encapsulation. The film’s style is bound to the personalities of its characters, who are often haunted by hallucinatory visions. As a result, Ashes’s plot runs wild, but Wong never loses control; like Feng, he’s a master craftsman who doesn’t apologize for his limitations.
There are narrative circles and dead ends, but somehow it doesn’t matter; the movie adds up to something far larger than its individual scenes. What that something is is wonderfully open-ended. Is it a story of unrequited love? An existential dilemma dressed up as a Kurosawa western? A nihilistic denouncement of humanity? Wong lets the viewers decide for themselves – an act of artistic bravery that belies his relative inexperience (Ashes was only his fourth directorial effort).
Fair warning: Despite the film’s dynamo potential, don’t expect a chopsocky kaleidoscope like Zhang Yimou’s Hero and House of Flying Daggers. Like Sergio Leone, Wong prefers to tease his audience with long, languorous takes and then follow them with quicksilver violence. The film’s few short battles show the heroes as powerful but human; they’re miles away from Zhang’s godlike archetypes.
Their humanity is entirely in keeping with the remainder of Wong’s catalogue, which has always focused on vulnerable romantics victimized by fate. Ashes’s true power comes not from the aggression of its characters but from the tenderness of their creator.
Rating: ****
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