Posts Tagged ‘Robert Cashill’

DVD Review: “The Enforcer” and “Protégé”

Dragon Dynasty, which put out an action-packed package of Jackie Chan’s Supercop in January, serves up a double helping of Hong Kong genre cinema this month. The Enforcer, from 1995, kicks it old school, in the crazy-quilt fashion that endeared fans to the territory’s anything-goes style filmmaking before the China handover two years later. The award-winning Protégé, from 2007, represents a break from what Dragon Dynasty commentator extraordinaire Bey Logan calls its “kung furious” line of titles, being the more sober, hard-hitting crime drama in favor nowadays.

The Enforcer was one of star Jet Li’s first attempts to break from the period martial arts persona he had established so well in the excellent Once Upon a Time in China series. The Beijing-born Li plays a mainland cop, on the hunt for antiquities smugglers, whose cover is blown by Hong Kong policewoman Anita Mui—which puts his dying wife and son (Tse Miu, the Macaulay Culkin of HK ass-kickers) at risk, and obliges Mui to step in and help as a babysitter as he sidles up to the principal villain. Not that the resourceful Miu needs minding: by the end of the picture, the son, who had been told that his dad was a baddie, is happily tied to a rope by Li and flung at the mobsters as a flying projectile, a unique bonding experience.

The perfunctory U.S. title, used previously for a Humphrey Bogart picture and the third Dirty Harry installment, gives the wrong idea about the movie. It was shot as Letter to Daddy, a poignant but equally misleading moniker, and released overseas as My Father is a Hero, overlapping with the French-made Gerard Depardieu comedy My Father the Hero and its Hollywood remake, which also starred Depardieu. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, it’s a family movie that satisfies two demographics that in this country are usually separated by the PG-13 rating, but apparently Miu being punched, nearly drowned, and emotionally abused even before the outrageous, circus-like finale was too much for the Motion Picture Association of America, which slapped it with an R for violence. Hong Kong audiences are completely unfazed by these shifts in tone, and The Enforcer whipsaws between big, tongue-somewhat-in-cheek action sequences and father-son melodrama, particularly after mom checks out and Mui (the multi-talented “Chinese Madonna,” who died too young at age 40 in 2003) plays surrogate wife and mother for the guys.

Li’s frequent collaborator, Corey Yuen, directed. Its ringmaster, however, is its irrepressible producer, Wong Jing, who churned out movies like fried dumplings, nine alone in 1995. Typically careless, it’s no classic, a something-for-everyone picture that springs to life when Li is let loose (the garbage truck fight, which as Logan says is like something from The Terminator, is classic). I’m always looking for handover subtext in pictures from this era, and when the marauding gangsters completely demolished a fragile-looking, glass-housed Hong Kong restaurant, I’d found my metaphor. The Enforcer’s other attributes are otherwise right on the surface. (more…)

DVD Review: “Blindness”

End-of-the-Earth sagas are a staple of horror and sci-fi, but it’s not just genre directors who make them. Filmmakers of all kinds are drawn to doomsday stories, as if they tire of creating worlds and after a few pictures long to destroy them. Off the top of my head, I can think of Paul Thomas Anderson (Magnolia, with its rain of frogs), Robert Aldrich (Kiss Me Deadly), Francois Truffaut (Fahrenheit 451), Stanley Kramer (On the Beach), Michael Haneke (Time of the Wolf), Stanley Kubrick (Dr. Strangelove), Steven Spielberg (the Kubrick-inspired A.I.: Artificial Intelligence), Robert Altman (Quintet), Louis Malle (Black Moon), Danny Boyle (twice: 28 Days Later and Sunshine)—given time, Nora Ephron may put Kate Hudson in one (and our big blue marble will really be in trouble).

Add to the list Fernando Meirelles, with Blindness, an adaptation of the acclaimed 1995 novel by Nobel Prize winner Jose Saramago. In its favor, it has that blue-chip literary pedigree, and a respectable cast headed by Julianne Moore, Mark Ruffalo, Danny Glover, and Y Tu Mama Tambien co-star Gael Garcia Bernal. But it’s neither fish nor fowl—not artful enough for the snooty arthouse crowed, too rarefied for the multiplex dunces—and comes to DVD a failure, tepidly received at Cannes (as so many festival openers are), with 60% rotten reviews at Rotten Tomatoes and boxoffice that was blind, deaf, and dumb. I was prepared to hate it (I was just itching to write “Blindness is lameness”—these are the jokes, kids), but, while not really liking it, it’s not half-bad, just fundamentally unappealing. It’s near the level of The Reader, another lackluster lit transfer, which I caught up with—and Miramax, which released Blindness, must regret no longer having Harvey Weinstein in its corner to bellow it to Oscar night.

Part of my reaction was relief that the director, whose City of God and The Constant Gardener drove me crazy with their anxious, Red Bull-fueled camerawork and caffeine-jag editing, relaxed. Visually Blindness has a calmer, floating quality, and is more fluidly presented, with hot bursts of lighting and dissolves to white to show an unnamed city (one part Sao Paulo, one part Montevideo, and one part Guelph and Toronto, in actuality) in the grips of an unexplained outbreak of blindness. The “unnamed” part, which works on the page but tends to crank up the pretension meter among viewers, extends to the characters, who include The Doctor (Ruffalo), who falls victim to the plague, and the Doctor’s Wife (Moore), who fakes blindness to join her husband in the grimy quarantine center authorities in the antiseptic metropolis have set up. In real life, public health authorities would handle all this differently (for one thing, the sightless might be enlisted to keep the newly blind from panicking) but this is blindness as metaphor for the despairing human condition; there’s none of the wry humor adaptor and co-star Don McKellar brought to his own take on the apocalypse genre, Last Night. (more…)

DVD Review: “The Films of Michael Powell” (”A Matter of Life and Death” and “Age of Consent”)

As I try to figure out my top DVDs for 2008, a must for my 2009 list has already arrived. Hot on the heels of its excellent “Collector’s Choice” edition of Randolph Scott Westerns directed by Budd Boetticher, Sony Pictures Home Entertainment, which made welcome strides with Columbia’s back catalog last year, has issued “The Films of Michael Powell.” The two-disc set features one of the great works of his partnership with co-writer, co-producer, and co-director Emeric Pressburger, the much-requested A Matter of Life and Death (1946), and his last, little-seen picture, Age of Consent (1969), where the beauties of Australia are upstaged by the debut of 23-year-old Helen Mirren in all her natural splendor.

My introduction to “The Archers,” as Powell and Pressburger billed themselves, came through my aunt, who told me that The Red Shoes (1948) was her favorite film. It quickly became one of mine. The subject is ballet, and the ambition and romantic yearnings that course through one aspiring ballerina, and their technique dances. Like most of the pictures made in the course of their partnership, it’s an evergreen, blazingly alive in Technicolor, and though we’ve come a long way, baby, since the life and career choices the heroine is forced to make (or have we?) it’s a timeless cinematic achievement. The Archers’ logo was a bulls-eye, and they rarely missed their target.

I hadn’t seen A Matter of Life and Death in some time till the DVD arrived, and the restoration of the image, which switches from monochrome to color, is breathtaking. So is the storytelling, with one knockout twist toward the end that managed to catch me off-guard. I think it was the hellish orange of the destructive flames in the scene that really reinforced what was happening, as a major character makes a transition that allows the celestial trial at the center of the plot to begin. The cinematography, which will vibrate off your monitor, is essential to the picture. The film was shot by Jack Cardiff, who, at age 94, supervised its transfer to DVD. (The story goes that he asked Sony’s technicians to go for a more “lemony cast” in one scene, which they tried but couldn’t do. Frustrated, they reported back to Cardiff, who replied, “Neither could I.”) (more…)

The Popdose 100: Our Favorite Singles of the Last 50 Years

It all started back in September, when Robert Cass sent an e-mail to the staff telling us Billboard had announced that Chubby Checker’s “The Twist” is the top song of the Hot 100 era. The reactions were swift and predictably shocked, ranging from “There must not be a God” to “That is one brutal list” to “Just as a general rule, I don’t think an artist is allowed to complain about a lack of respect once they’ve recorded a duet with the Fat Boys.” And just as swiftly, an idea was born: what if we all ranked our favorite songs of the era and shared the results with all of you?

So here it is — the Popdose 100. We limited our choices to songs from the last 50 years, and in the interest of establishing some kind of consensus, we tried to stick to singles that actually charted on the Hot 100. Some of us limited the number of times we could pick a single by any particular artist, but for the most part we kept it as informal as possible — and wouldn’t you know it, “The Twist” is nowhere to be found.

Now, this being the Internet and all, we know two things: 1) people love lists; and 2) they love to complain about what’s on them. So we expect a fair amount of grousing about what made our list; hell, even some of the writers who participated were a little perturbed by the final results. Where’s all the rap? Where the hell are the women? So on and so forth. Every list is flawed, and ours is no exception, but remember, this isn’t meant to be a list of the “best” or “top” singles of the era — only our favorites.

Now that we’ve gotten all the background info and caveats out of the way, thanks are in order: to David Medsker, for tabulating the results; to Robert Cass, for editing it into something legible; and to the Popdose staff — not to mention our friends Peter Lubin, Amy Davis, Carl Abernathy, and Mike Heyliger, who added their votes to our own. Let’s take a look at the results, shall we?

(more…)

No Concessions: Fun and Games

Management informs me that as of today we’re off until the new year. I can’t promise that I won’t sneak back into the building from time to time, but to tide you over I have a couple of movie-related diversions. Fun for the holidays — or more fun, anyway, than Reese Witherspoon in a Christmas movie.

I found this one at the Blog Cabins site. It’s a simple, or simple-seeming, alphabet game. What you do is match your favorite film to its letter in the alphabet, with a few provisos: Articles like “A” and “The” don’t count toward a title, and numbered titles correspond to the first letter of the number (1984 under “N,” for example). I don’t get hung up on series entries: If you prefer Return of the Jedi over Star Wars Episode IV: Return of the Jedi, fine by me, but maybe limit yourself to one entry in a series. (If Return of the Jedi is your favorite Stars Wars movie, you have more than just nomenclature problems.) And try to draw from your memory banks rather than a reference source, not that I can enforce it. To paraphrase Albert Brooks in the film I’ve decided to use for my “R” entry, “What can I do? Send you to movie jail?”

So here goes. It gets tougher with the letters that don’t yield a lot title-wise:

Aliens (1986)
The Bride of Frankenstein (1935)
Chinatown (1974) (more…)

No Concessions: A Life in Bond-age

This is not a review of Quantum of Solace, the 22nd James Bond picture. There was a screening Wednesday night, but I had to put my Walther PPK aside…and babysit. My license to kill has been revoked, my piece replaced with a 4 oz. bottle.

In any event, it gives me a chance to do what Popdosers often do: stroll down memory lane. Week-to-week, most of this column is in the here and now, but today I go back…way back, from Bond 1 to Bond 21. We start at the age of eight, circa 1973, when Nixon was still in the White House and my dad took me to see a double feature of Diamonds are Forever and Live and Let Die. I have vivid memories of the former, Sean Connery’s second-to-last turn in his signature role: From the get-go, it was more perverse than what I was used to be taken to, with gay villains, lesbian villainesses, and a bad guy in drag, not that any of this registered with any clarity (though its swishy portrait of homosexuality is on a third-grade level today). But I immediately grasped its structure, with the pre-opening credits action, the fusion of opening song and sinuous animated titles, the introduction of series regulars, and a rise-and-fall pattern to the expository, bedroom, and action scenes. Everything snapped perfectly into place, like one of Q’s gadgets.

There was a playful formality to it, credited, I came to recognize, to co-producer Albert R. Broccoli, who from Dr. No to Licence to Kill lavished as much attention on his baby as David O. Selznick did on Gone with the Wind. (His partner Harry Saltzman, who I think kept some of his lesser impulses in check, left the series after The Man with the Golden Gun, as the series made a decisive shift.) The journeyman directors, never A-list auteurs in their own right, who were hired to keep the works running smoothly did some of their best work on the series. Then again, how could they not, with the likes of composer John Barry, production designer Ken Adam, and titles creator Maurice Binder in their corner? (more…)

No Concessions: Decider-in-Chief (”W.”)

George W. Bush says he is content to let history judge him. But he misunderestimated Oliver Stone, whose W. puts our departing president on the cinematic cutting board just weeks before the next election. I was concerned over the timing: Stone’s throwing red meat to Bill O’Reilly and the “base” is just the kind of diversion flop-sweating right-wingers are hoping for as the McCain campaign lumbers on. True, conservatives will carp over the more broadly satirical sections, and the distortions to the record as they see them. (The very idea of Oliver Stone, a Vietnam veteran resistant to swift boating, dipped in Oscar gold, and beloved by segments of the liberal media, is infuriating to the right.) But with so many noted Republicans, Republican incumbents, and Maverick himself running away from Bush’s meager achievements, it will be no easy task for pundits to prove that Stone is the only one kicking Shrub when he’s down. Besides, the movie picks him up from the gutter, and dusts him off a little bit. It’s a portrait Joe the Plumber might endorse, at least in part, if he had that tax cut he needs to afford movie night again.

W. is fitfully entertaining, but Stone’s slash-and-sympathy tactics make for a schizophrenic experience. He is a coarse filmmaker, largely adverse to nuance, and that bludgeoning quality gives his best pictures their lifeforce vitality. When brain matches brawn, you get a Salvador or a Platoon, and I’m partial to the time capsule called Wall Street, Born on the Fourth of July, JFK, and Any Given Sunday besides. But he overreaches, as with Natural Born Killers and Alexander, and played it safe with World Trade Center, as if he had lost his nerve. He hedges here, more skillfully. W. is a cheekily timed broadside, more sober-minded than Comedy Central’s “That’s My Bush!” (which despite a dead-on interpreter in Timothy Bottoms came and went pre-9/11, before its subject was better defined) and what for some was the wish fulfillment of 2006’s briefly controversial fake documentary Death of a President. We get a recreation of Bush choking on a potato chip as he watches a football game in the White House, but this is treated semi-solemnly, and leads to a flashback. (more…)