Showing posts with label screenshots. Show all posts
Showing posts with label screenshots. Show all posts
May 23, 2011
The Terminator
Apr 28, 2011
Viewing Log #5
Robot Monster (Phil Tucker, 1953). What madness is this?! I knew of this film for having been an early feature on MST3K, and, similarly, for having won some award in the 1980s for worst movie of all time. This is probably more indicative of a developed taste in garbage than I'd like to admit, but, sweet Jesus, if Robot Monster is a bad movie, it is certainly one of the greatest bad movies ever made. Let those who care to do so debate whether the bare-bones absurdity on display is the result of wanting resources or audacious creative vision; I'd like to think the latter, but the result is most certainly a kind of cinematic nirvana. A family picnicking in a remote valley survives the annihilation of mankind; the invading titular destroyer, Ro-Man (performed by George Barrows, voiced by John Brown), spends the majority of the film marching to and from his cave headquarters (dig that bubble machine) in his effort to finally terminate the species. The mere sight of Ro-Man (whose species and planet are amusingly of the same name) - he would appear to be a man in a gorilla suit and diving helmet - suggests the pinnacle of 1950s sci-fi silliness, the film's title an impossibly perfect condensation of the archetype. Stock footage from One Million B.C. (factoid: D.W. Griffith served as an uncredited director on that film) suggests a Lynchian freak-out (spoilers ahoy), and in its own modest ways, the film is surprisingly cutthroat and unforgiving. Of course, in the end, love saves the day, and it's all a boys dream. Or is it? I've since tried, and failed, to watch this MST3K episode; the film deserves better than the lackluster commentary season one was able to provide. The ending - three times!!! - solidifies it as a masterpiece. All hail the Robot Monster. [Rating: A]
Blue Valentine (Derek Cianfrance, 2010). Supplanting obstacles typical to bubbly date movie formulas with devastations more apropos of real life, Blue Valentine reaches for heartbreaking truths and almost succeeds in grasping them. The whiffs of revelation (a sequence in a futuristic hotel room and an impromptu dance number among them) never quite transcend what is ultimately a very formulaic screenplay, one that comes down to a mannered connect-the-dots thesis whose real audacity is limited to a relentless if necessary downer attitude and a timeline that never makes explicit its nonlinear jumps (and a beautiful non-ending that's just about perfect). Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams are Dean and Cindy, young parents whose relationship, once ripe with love and purpose, is in a downward spiral of disrepair. On a per-performer basis, this might be the best acted film of 2010. It's so close to achieving greatness it hurts, almost as much as the embittered relationship herein. [Rating: B]
Rango (Gore Verbinski, 2011). It's all there in the opening scene: Johnny Depp's titular lizard play acts with the inanimate objects that make up his life, until the moment a near auto crash sees him separated from his host family, his life as a pet now reduced to broken glass and rubble on a desert highway. When he finds a nearby, sun-scorched town in dire straights, his opportunity to create whatever identity he wants is put to the test, and Rango proves a thoughtful look at the ways in which drama can shape life. Sadly, this irreverent western gallery of personified animals can't quite sustain its gonzo verve for feature length (it's all too easy to see through the plot to the lurking Chinatown revelation, although a third act cameo sets a high water mark of awesome, especially for fans of Deadwood), but it's still as genuinely idiosyncratic and effortlessly entertaining as the best of big-budget family features. Actually, that's not entirely true: Rango routinely pushes the boundary of what's typical for PG animated humor, and your kids probably pick up on more of those racy jokes than you realize. Move over Shrek, you little puss. [Rating: B]
Pulp Fiction (Quentin Tarantino, 1994). Cinema's coolest new kid has arguably gone further and deeper in his subsequent works (minus the standalone Kill Bill: Volume 1, I can see any of his films argued as his best), but methinks this zeitgeist-tapping miracle will always remain his most quintessential. Maybe it's just the subsequent seventeen years worth of jumbled narratives talking, but the non-linearity of Pulp Fiction seems almost quaint now, which is not to say it was ever THAT much to wrap one's head around to begin with. (Minus the opening scene and the last chapter, and Mr. Walken's hysterically restrained cameo, it's actually entirely straightforward.) More significant than its obvious infatuation with cinema past is the subtextual meditation on pride, faith, and redemption, at least for those lucky enough to come out on top when the bullets have flown and fists landed. Look deeply enough, and the universe emerges in full. [Rating: A]
Apr 19, 2011
If God Is Willing and Da Creek Don't Rise
Mar 29, 2011
Mystery Science Theater 3000: Volume XX
Mar 18, 2011
Taxi Driver
Dec 28, 2010
Memories of Jurassic Park
[This post is my contribution to the Steven Spielberg Blogathon co-hosted by Adam Zanzie (Icebox Movies) and Ryan Kelly (Medfly Quarantine).]
As an 8-year-old, Jurassic Park held remarkably little sway over me in the days before I saw the film. I'd been caught up in hype before: Disney's Beauty and the Beast was my favorite movie by far for a time, and I remember counting down the days before I got to see it (seven times in theaters, a record unmatched by any film until Inglourious Basterds) and even being something of a prick towards my parents when I didn't get to go see it right away. Similarly, I'm pretty sure that word of the production of Home Alone 2 made me jump with excitement. I liked dinosaurs terrifically as a child; in the case of Jurassic Park, you'd think I'd have been jumping out of my skin. Alas, the preview was memorable but, once passed, left little impression on my young mind.
The reason, I think, is that at even that early point in time, I had mentally checked Steven Spielberg as someone to watch out for, in a bad way (ironic now, I know). E.T. had already rubbed me the wrong way, so clearly I was the one who had gotten off on the wrong foot (other than that negative feeling, I don't remember watching it, only knowing that it had happened). A few years later, I'd see and love Duel, but for now I was confronted with a film that had earned important notice amongst people my age (along with pogs, among other things of such importance) and, concurrently, in the local newspaper for having drawn such young interest in a PG-13 rated movie. My dad showed me editorials and cartoons on the matter as if (a) I gave a shit (I hadn't pressed to see the film, and would later be denied access to see The Nightmare Before Christmas; adventurous, my parents always are) and (b) such noise was worthwhile (already, media banter struck me as reactionary and inane). And when my first chance came to actually go see the movie, I actively dismissed it. Even I don't get my weirdness sometimes.
Suffice to say, when I finally was able to see it (a few months into its run, around Halloween, I remember), Spielberg's film disturbed me profoundly. I wasn't entertained so much as paralyzed, from the opening scene on (even the jovial first half couldn't overcome the effect). I remember ticking off the number of people who had died in the film, finding it (the film) to be horribly, sickeningly exploitative (this being the second time such an effect had happened to me: a terrible disaster picture in a tropical setting, When Time Ran Out, made for a disturbing television experience several years earlier; with no concept of special effects, these people drowning and burning were actually dying to my young eyes). My anger at the film culminated in the form of a written letter to one Mr. Spielberg, in which I disparaged him for wallowing in perceived filth and gore. I'm unsure of what happened to this letter; part of me wishes to read it, while another hopes it no longer exists, so as to not become potential blackmail fodder.
In time, I came to enjoy Jurassic Park (for the record, I've now possessed four copies of the film, the first, a VHS, being a gift, later a widescreen VHS, and two DVDs, the most latter bought for the purposes of this 'thon because the first DVD copy is still on loan to the co-host himself!), and more recently, to love it quite unabashedly. A late-night solo viewing of the film two or three years ago convinced me of its singularity: as an action film, as an auteurist vision, as a blockbuster, as a humanist statement. It's a masterpiece, and I'd go so far as to call it life-affirming. Among the many recommendables: Spielberg's exquisite character shorthand, a finely tuned orchestra, of performers, and the visual effects, which - although easier to spot these 17 years later - are still an enthralling landmark in digital evolution. The nighttime T-Rex attack might be the finest f/x set piece ever filmed, and that's coming from a died-in-the-wool Terminator fan (and you can throw all six Star Wars on the keeper pile, too).
What I eventually realized, with so much hindsight, was that Jurassic Park disturbed me at that age because this was a film that took death seriously. Unlike most of the flimsy monster movies I'd seen up until that time -- in which a cop snatched from traffic by the hungry jaws of a monster was just a throwaway figure in a fun but surface-deep framework -- this was the work of someone who considered the spirit and flesh and blood of everyone involved, even the cowardly lawyer and pudgy, scorned hacker. Films that toss off human life (singular or plural) without due cause (be it laughter or tears or something between) sicken me yet, but time has shown layers where previously none shown.
Spielberg was too experienced even at that point in his career to not be aware of an inherent silliness in the material (something Peter Jackson would fumble with in his adaptation of King Kong), and yet this awareness doesn't manifest itself as camp; it grounds the material, and with the help of technology, renders it as real as flesh and blood (Hammond's second act speech about a flea circus would be unforgivably lame if it wasn't such a blatant surrogate for Spielberg's intentions). By relocating the narrative pull away from the physical action (which is beautiful pop art) to the universal human impulses laced within (life finds a way), Spielberg elevates the material to the timelessly sublime.
It's this core of humanity that appeals to me so strongly in all of Spielberg's films, and yet he's not one without his darker sides. If Jurassic Park (and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, and The Lost World, and Raiders of the Lost Ark, among others) tells us anything, it's that Steven likes to kill people in his movies. Humanistic or not, villains need dispatching, but his portrayals always hit a gut response of authenticity because they represent an actual loss. Nowadays, Jurassic Park's film-as-a-ride extravaganza is one of my favorite popcorn titles. And I'm entirely grateful that it, and not War of the Worlds, was there to torment my childhood.
A final tangential note: if you saw Jurassic Park at midnight at New York City's Sunshine theater early 2010 (a good showing, even if the audience was a little bit too ironic towards the movie for my taste), you'll probably remember the big audience cheer for Sam Neill when his character is introduced. Immediately following was a guy who then singly called out Laura Dern's name with meek enthusiasm. Yeah, that was me.
I love these faces.
Nedry and Hammond's past is deliberately obscured in this script. Is this line meant sincerely?
This is one of my favorite acting moments in the film. Compelled, as if by an involuntary force, to rush to the aid of the children, Alan realizes, immediately after getting the attention of the T-Rex, that he is now the prey of choice. His face twitches delightfully as he conveys dawning fear and redoubled resolution in the matter of about two seconds.
Listen at this moment for a antiquated slipping sound file, like something out of an old cartoon. Fitting.
He looked down.
What are they looking at? Limbs? Fleshy scraps?
lol
I wonder how many takes this shot required.
I love how this gotcha moment suggests greater unseen intelligence of the raptors. One of those creatures had to stuff that arm into the crevice, as if hiding all traces of themselves before the arrival of the next potential victim.
Be vewy vewy qwiet....I'm hunting waptors.
If you don't give yourself away, cheap utensil hooks surely will.
Are you there, God?
As an 8-year-old, Jurassic Park held remarkably little sway over me in the days before I saw the film. I'd been caught up in hype before: Disney's Beauty and the Beast was my favorite movie by far for a time, and I remember counting down the days before I got to see it (seven times in theaters, a record unmatched by any film until Inglourious Basterds) and even being something of a prick towards my parents when I didn't get to go see it right away. Similarly, I'm pretty sure that word of the production of Home Alone 2 made me jump with excitement. I liked dinosaurs terrifically as a child; in the case of Jurassic Park, you'd think I'd have been jumping out of my skin. Alas, the preview was memorable but, once passed, left little impression on my young mind.
The reason, I think, is that at even that early point in time, I had mentally checked Steven Spielberg as someone to watch out for, in a bad way (ironic now, I know). E.T. had already rubbed me the wrong way, so clearly I was the one who had gotten off on the wrong foot (other than that negative feeling, I don't remember watching it, only knowing that it had happened). A few years later, I'd see and love Duel, but for now I was confronted with a film that had earned important notice amongst people my age (along with pogs, among other things of such importance) and, concurrently, in the local newspaper for having drawn such young interest in a PG-13 rated movie. My dad showed me editorials and cartoons on the matter as if (a) I gave a shit (I hadn't pressed to see the film, and would later be denied access to see The Nightmare Before Christmas; adventurous, my parents always are) and (b) such noise was worthwhile (already, media banter struck me as reactionary and inane). And when my first chance came to actually go see the movie, I actively dismissed it. Even I don't get my weirdness sometimes.
Suffice to say, when I finally was able to see it (a few months into its run, around Halloween, I remember), Spielberg's film disturbed me profoundly. I wasn't entertained so much as paralyzed, from the opening scene on (even the jovial first half couldn't overcome the effect). I remember ticking off the number of people who had died in the film, finding it (the film) to be horribly, sickeningly exploitative (this being the second time such an effect had happened to me: a terrible disaster picture in a tropical setting, When Time Ran Out, made for a disturbing television experience several years earlier; with no concept of special effects, these people drowning and burning were actually dying to my young eyes). My anger at the film culminated in the form of a written letter to one Mr. Spielberg, in which I disparaged him for wallowing in perceived filth and gore. I'm unsure of what happened to this letter; part of me wishes to read it, while another hopes it no longer exists, so as to not become potential blackmail fodder.
In time, I came to enjoy Jurassic Park (for the record, I've now possessed four copies of the film, the first, a VHS, being a gift, later a widescreen VHS, and two DVDs, the most latter bought for the purposes of this 'thon because the first DVD copy is still on loan to the co-host himself!), and more recently, to love it quite unabashedly. A late-night solo viewing of the film two or three years ago convinced me of its singularity: as an action film, as an auteurist vision, as a blockbuster, as a humanist statement. It's a masterpiece, and I'd go so far as to call it life-affirming. Among the many recommendables: Spielberg's exquisite character shorthand, a finely tuned orchestra, of performers, and the visual effects, which - although easier to spot these 17 years later - are still an enthralling landmark in digital evolution. The nighttime T-Rex attack might be the finest f/x set piece ever filmed, and that's coming from a died-in-the-wool Terminator fan (and you can throw all six Star Wars on the keeper pile, too).
What I eventually realized, with so much hindsight, was that Jurassic Park disturbed me at that age because this was a film that took death seriously. Unlike most of the flimsy monster movies I'd seen up until that time -- in which a cop snatched from traffic by the hungry jaws of a monster was just a throwaway figure in a fun but surface-deep framework -- this was the work of someone who considered the spirit and flesh and blood of everyone involved, even the cowardly lawyer and pudgy, scorned hacker. Films that toss off human life (singular or plural) without due cause (be it laughter or tears or something between) sicken me yet, but time has shown layers where previously none shown.
Spielberg was too experienced even at that point in his career to not be aware of an inherent silliness in the material (something Peter Jackson would fumble with in his adaptation of King Kong), and yet this awareness doesn't manifest itself as camp; it grounds the material, and with the help of technology, renders it as real as flesh and blood (Hammond's second act speech about a flea circus would be unforgivably lame if it wasn't such a blatant surrogate for Spielberg's intentions). By relocating the narrative pull away from the physical action (which is beautiful pop art) to the universal human impulses laced within (life finds a way), Spielberg elevates the material to the timelessly sublime.
It's this core of humanity that appeals to me so strongly in all of Spielberg's films, and yet he's not one without his darker sides. If Jurassic Park (and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, and The Lost World, and Raiders of the Lost Ark, among others) tells us anything, it's that Steven likes to kill people in his movies. Humanistic or not, villains need dispatching, but his portrayals always hit a gut response of authenticity because they represent an actual loss. Nowadays, Jurassic Park's film-as-a-ride extravaganza is one of my favorite popcorn titles. And I'm entirely grateful that it, and not War of the Worlds, was there to torment my childhood.
A final tangential note: if you saw Jurassic Park at midnight at New York City's Sunshine theater early 2010 (a good showing, even if the audience was a little bit too ironic towards the movie for my taste), you'll probably remember the big audience cheer for Sam Neill when his character is introduced. Immediately following was a guy who then singly called out Laura Dern's name with meek enthusiasm. Yeah, that was me.
I love these faces.
Nedry and Hammond's past is deliberately obscured in this script. Is this line meant sincerely?
This is one of my favorite acting moments in the film. Compelled, as if by an involuntary force, to rush to the aid of the children, Alan realizes, immediately after getting the attention of the T-Rex, that he is now the prey of choice. His face twitches delightfully as he conveys dawning fear and redoubled resolution in the matter of about two seconds.
Listen at this moment for a antiquated slipping sound file, like something out of an old cartoon. Fitting.
He looked down.
What are they looking at? Limbs? Fleshy scraps?
lol
I wonder how many takes this shot required.
I love how this gotcha moment suggests greater unseen intelligence of the raptors. One of those creatures had to stuff that arm into the crevice, as if hiding all traces of themselves before the arrival of the next potential victim.
Be vewy vewy qwiet....I'm hunting waptors.
If you don't give yourself away, cheap utensil hooks surely will.
Are you there, God?
Sep 24, 2010
The Thin Red Line: A Photo Essay
Everything a lie.
Everything you hear, everything you see.
So much to spew out.
They just keep coming, one after another.
You're in a box. A moving box.
They want you dead... or in their lie.
Only one thing a man can do--
find something that's his, make an island for himself.
find something that's his, make an island for himself.
If I never meet you in this life, let me feel the lack.
A glance from your eyes, and my life will be yours.
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