If there exists a well of cinema below the rankings typically attributed to direct-to-video fare, Zzyzx occupies it – one imagines that what little exposure the film has received can be credited solely to its inanely eye-catching title. Sharing the same moniker as a small stretch of road in the Mojave Desert (itself originally named so as to be “the last word in the English language”), the film concerns two guys (most press notes describe them as “friends”, but I see no indication of so pleasant a relationship) on their way to Vegas, their detour to the titular road the result of the excessively reserved Ryan’s (Ryan Fox) having read stories about the location’s supernatural tendencies. Military vet Lou (Kenny Johnson) is hearing none of it, and – when the otherwise barren road presents them with an older man on foot – makes as if he’s going to run him down for the sheer sport of it. Ryan fights for control of the wheel, and – whether Lou’s initial indications of malice were intentional or not – the man is run over and killed. No sooner then he sputters his last words, his wife Candice (Robyn Cohen) is seen on the horizon, in search of her recently acquired spouse. Ryan and Lou stash the body in the car and make cute with the innocuous girl, each having distinctly different ideas on how to handle the situation at hand. What follows brings to mind a cross between Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’s trip factor and Wolf Creek’s hellish vision of the world, albeit in the most superficially aesthetic means possible (note to all filmmakers: shaking your camera does not automatically make things look realistic and/or stylized), devoid of genuine subtext and barely coherent from one scene to the next, stylistically or otherwise. Eventually, Ryan, Lou and Candice have at each other amidst drugs, alcohol, and sex, nary a moment of their interaction not defying virtually all standards of reasonable or believable human behavior, the entirety of this narrative told in retrospect with scenes of a Mexican family digging up the anti-protagonist’s remains serving as a framing device. Like the rest of the film, these sequences are bereft of implicit meaning (save for whatever convoluted philosophies the filmmakers will bend over backwards to justify), instead serving as some strange breed of faux moral contemplation that suggests an acquired taste I don’t especially want for myself. No indie film this bad would be complete without a plot twist, the ultimate non-revelation only adding to the film’s stale voyeurism. “Zzyzx” may very well be at the end of the dictionary; if so, the film is justly stuck at the bottom of the barrel.
Jun 30, 2007
Zzyzx (2005): F
If there exists a well of cinema below the rankings typically attributed to direct-to-video fare, Zzyzx occupies it – one imagines that what little exposure the film has received can be credited solely to its inanely eye-catching title. Sharing the same moniker as a small stretch of road in the Mojave Desert (itself originally named so as to be “the last word in the English language”), the film concerns two guys (most press notes describe them as “friends”, but I see no indication of so pleasant a relationship) on their way to Vegas, their detour to the titular road the result of the excessively reserved Ryan’s (Ryan Fox) having read stories about the location’s supernatural tendencies. Military vet Lou (Kenny Johnson) is hearing none of it, and – when the otherwise barren road presents them with an older man on foot – makes as if he’s going to run him down for the sheer sport of it. Ryan fights for control of the wheel, and – whether Lou’s initial indications of malice were intentional or not – the man is run over and killed. No sooner then he sputters his last words, his wife Candice (Robyn Cohen) is seen on the horizon, in search of her recently acquired spouse. Ryan and Lou stash the body in the car and make cute with the innocuous girl, each having distinctly different ideas on how to handle the situation at hand. What follows brings to mind a cross between Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’s trip factor and Wolf Creek’s hellish vision of the world, albeit in the most superficially aesthetic means possible (note to all filmmakers: shaking your camera does not automatically make things look realistic and/or stylized), devoid of genuine subtext and barely coherent from one scene to the next, stylistically or otherwise. Eventually, Ryan, Lou and Candice have at each other amidst drugs, alcohol, and sex, nary a moment of their interaction not defying virtually all standards of reasonable or believable human behavior, the entirety of this narrative told in retrospect with scenes of a Mexican family digging up the anti-protagonist’s remains serving as a framing device. Like the rest of the film, these sequences are bereft of implicit meaning (save for whatever convoluted philosophies the filmmakers will bend over backwards to justify), instead serving as some strange breed of faux moral contemplation that suggests an acquired taste I don’t especially want for myself. No indie film this bad would be complete without a plot twist, the ultimate non-revelation only adding to the film’s stale voyeurism. “Zzyzx” may very well be at the end of the dictionary; if so, the film is justly stuck at the bottom of the barrel.
Jun 23, 2007
Die Hard 2 (1990): C+
Jun 22, 2007
The Fountain (2006): A
It should be obvious to just about everyone, then, that what is and is not a “failure” is an incredibly subjective designation. A necessity in any form of criticism or opinion-exchanging is the ability to recognize - and appreciate - the coexistence of conflicting opinions and taste; were more people be able to do this simple task, the world as we know it would be a much nicer place to live in. With this in mind, I've chosen The Fountain as my subject on this topic. I think that there are far better and more important films I could write about for this topic, but it was a film that left a deep impression on me that I've not yet found the time to adequately examine or write about. Six months later, having now seen it three times and come to better understand my feelings towards it, I feel far more prepared for the task.
I bring up these individuals not to criticize or take on their opinions, but to remark at how many of their specific (and largely negative) observations I actually agree with; despite many of the same observations, we've reached strikingly different conclusions. Yes, The Fountain is ridiculous, arguably pretentious, pining for your attention like a sixth grade emo kid. Its premise is a silly and all-too-literal manifestation of man’s grappling with his own mortality. Its multi-layered narrative web is highlighted at every intersection, and Rachel Weisz is always standing by to repeat the film's philosophies for those who didn’t hear them the first time. Despite all that, I love it to pieces.
To some extent, one could argue that The Fountain remains less than fully formed, although to an extent I feel that such perceived shortcomings actually add to the experience. This is a film – or at least a theme and subject – that Aronofsky should have arguably left in the drawing room for some time, until life’s experiences had given him greater insight into the passages of the soul. But at the same time, the film is what it is because of its creator's youthful vigor, the passion that stems from eagerly exploring the unknown. It is a naïve work by a soul aware of its own limitations, its honesty like a pulpy, bleeding heart longing for the experiences of the world and the wisdom of the ages.
It is unfortunate for the film that it has elicited such a distinctly divided reaction amongst both audiences and critics alike, it being thematically ambitious but aesthetically traditional enough to arouse similar vigor on both sides of the aisle (it is telling that the film's Rotten Tomatoes score is an even 50%). Many love the film for something it isn't, while many hate it for failing to be something it never tried to be in the first place. Only a fool would liken it to 2001: A Space Odyssey – hold Kubrick’s masterpiece up to Aronofsky’s work, and it will expose the film’s flaws tenfold. Similarly, it is foolish to disregard any work simply for not being something other than itself, to leave it despite any potentially independent merits of its own. The Fountain has its own beautiful, worthwhile heart, a desire to reach for greatness despite knowing full well that it is out of its league.
Aronofsky has laid out his intentions like a heart on his sleeve, tying together his epic love story through a fairly obvious storytelling device that allows him to cover a 1,000-year canvas with relative ease. Like M. Night Shayamalan's misunderstood Lady in the Water (possibly 2007's greatest "failure"), The Fountain is a daring act of creation open for all to see without the slightest of pretenses. Internet critic Steve Rhodes calls it “preposterous,” and he is right (keep in mind that many people think the same thing about the virgin birth, too). What it comes down to is the human need to tell stories – stories that uncover deeper emotional truths, no matter what path is taken to find them. If film criticism boiled down to pure technical analysis - from basic filmmaking practices to the usual suspects of plot, acting, dialogue, etc. - then I’d be unable to even give The Fountain the time of day. But, as is the case in all art, there is an immaterial force guiding the proceedings, and even though The Fountain is routinely absurd in ways seemingly unforgivable, it works through its own messy ambitions to find its own sacred emotional truths.
In this way, my adoration for The Fountain stems largely from the fact that it even exists in the first place. This is not to say I dislike watching it – it is a rocky experience that has elicited groans, chuckles, and eye-rolls from yours truly, and one that I can wholly understand others loathing. It can't begin to hold a candle to its many predecessors and will likely be surpassed by its own creator as his body of work builds - it might not even make my top ten of the year should I ever recompile the list. Still, with all this standing against it, it has also managed to make me wide-eyed with wonder; not in the staring-into-the-face-of-God way that 2001 manages to redefine my life every single time I watch it, but in the way that one is inspired by watching another do the same, without flinching. If this is but a folly of youth – both Aronofsky’s and mine - then so be it.
This my contribution to William Speruzzi's Ambitious Failure Blog-a-Thon, hosted at This Savage Art.
Jun 9, 2007
Hostel: Part II (2007): F
Like the best modern horror films, Hostel: Part II’s chosen subject matter is ripe with parallels to worldwide human conflicts; Roth’s script gives lip service to the immorality and chaos that often comes out of a society on the brink of anarchy, but lip service it remains. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre savagely evoked the American experience in Vietnam through it’s slice-and-dice mayhem. Here, Roth wants desperately to have his cake and eat it too. Hostel: Part II shuns such implicit social examinations in favor of a proudly perfunctory series of unfortunate events, so as to flex it’s Grand Guignol muscles without any un-cool claims to higher legitimacy. Yet, much like it’s equally bullshit-laden predecessor Cannibal Holocaust, this film ultimately gives way to a faux-artsy commentary on its depicted human torture by means of a shallow and unjustified swapping of character motivations. Roth condescends to his characters at virtually every turn, their every action and line of dialogue in service to his superficially provokative bullshit.
Such poseur imitations are certainly depressing, but Hostel: Part II is most reprehensible in its proudly disclaiming any connection to morality. That the film’s most bloodthirsty character ultimately sees the error of his ways when the carnage finally begins is of no redemptive value here, as the film is simply going through prefabricated plot mechanisms without spirit or joy, served up only to legitimate its cowardly torture sequences with the cover of a plot. Roth wants to be as brutal to his audience as possible, but by divorcing his film from any anchor in the complexities of its human roots, the end results are surprisingly tame - there's virtually nothing here that hasn't been done before, better, and with more substance, even if only of the incidental kind. That someone would pay to kill a fellow human being isn't nearly as disturbing as why someone might do such a thing, yet this is a reality lost on such surface-oriented filmmakers, and for a film built so heavily on such strangely motivated characters, such a stunning lack of characterization is a most damning attribute. The film doesn't want to acknowledge the banality of evil, only to exploit it for immediate and increasingly desensitized shocks. One may as well watch a marathon of American beheadings at the hands of Iraqi insurgents with popcorn in hand – the entertainment value is surprisingly comparable. You can add fans of this movie to the list of people I’ll never date.
Jun 8, 2007
Ocean's Thirteen (2007): C-
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