The Weather Man (2005)

An underrated comedy-drama, Nicholas Cage stars as a Chicago weatherman who does his best to predict unpredictable weather, even as he tries to deal with the odd and unexpected emotional currents in his own life, and those close to him. Michael Caine plays his award-winning writer father who knows President Carter, and appears to have lived a flawless and stoic life, for the most part. Living up to that isn’t easy, particularly when your marriage has fallen apart, and people will chuck a taco at you on the street for getting the weather wrong. Both Cage and Caine are excellent, in subtle and understated performances — it could have been a disaster if they’d gone over the top, but reigned in, they’re both believable and likeable people. As David Spritz, Nicholas Cage manages to relate that he has a good heart, even as he’s capable of being self-centered and petulant from time to time. As if to demonstrate the kind of negative karma his remarkably easy yet frustrating job generates (he reads the weather, without actually doing the work to predict it), the film flashes to a disatisfied middle-aged couple saying things like “What kind of name is Spritz,” and “I don’t like his face.” As much as this can be taken as an example of our tendency to make self-satisfied snap judgements, it illustrates the kind of negativity Spritz is swimming against, making us want to root for him all the more. As his father, Michael Caine could easily have turned in a performance that made the character impenetrable, or he could have barked his lines, overdoing the idea he’s intimidating — and certainly a lesser actor would have done that — but his character stands there looking at his son, completely bewildered, asking “Why would someone throw a frosty at you? And what is a frosty?”

Aside from an excellent supporting cast, the film has a lot of style and even manages some exquisite moments and beautiful shots. It’s a film that apparently did quite poorly at the box office, maybe because at first glance it doesn’t look like anything terribly special, and certainly it’s only in the last ten minutes the film manages to reward to viewer for sticking it out through some very difficult and awkwardly funny moments, but the trip is undoubtedly worth it.

Watch the trailer here.

Gran Torino (2008)

At 78 years old when this film was shot, Clint Eastwood is a blazing-eyed, elderly version of the persona he has reproduced from time to time since A Fistful of Dollars (1964). Directed and co-produced by Eastwood, it’s an interesting film before the first frame has been shown, simply because it feels like an attempt to give his long acting career a coda, of sorts. 

The film itself has mixed results — as Walt Kowalski, a permanently grumpy veteran that dislikes all the different ethnicity in the neighbourhood, Eastwood can make “Get off my lawn,” sound like a death threat. But as Kowalski starts to get to know the neighbours and develop something of a community around him, it becomes clear some of the supporting cast of younger actors don’t seem terribly comfortable in their roles. The film could’ve been a joke, but it isn’t thanks to Eastwood’s solid central performance — it’s a shame some of the other performances are so wobbly. The writing is a little wobbly too. All the material about how some of the younger generation lacks reverence and appreciation (particularly in the Kowalski family) struck me as valid, but the film is overly heavy-handed about it. The central themes are clear – that beneath ethnic differences and the turmoil of certain daily struggles, we sometimes have far more in common than we think. And yet, there’s a scene that feels like something leftover from a Dirty Harry film, a scene where Eastwood is able to easily diffuse a situation, but only because he’s armed. It’s a contradiction at the heart of many American films, but it seems a little more pronounced when the main character is a gun-wielding 78 year old man.  In short, the film mixes heartwarming moments with head-scratching ones.  

Eastwood has had a fascinating career.  Aside from the films he directed, he’s among thos actors that became an American icon. Dirty Harry (1971) is a stylish and entertaining film, but also very conservative at heart — at it’s core it knocks the pesky civil rights that get in the way of a good cop blowing away someone that deserves it, and there’s even a scene that manages to suggest it’s common sense for police to shoot first and ask questions later. Generally a supporter of Republican politicians, Eastwood endorsed McCain in the recent presidential election. And yet, this is the man who directed the award-winning Unforgiven (1992), where as aging gunfighter William Munny, he has the lines “It’s a hell of a thing killing a man. You take away everything he’s ever had, and everything he’s ever gonna have.” And in A Perfect World (1993) also directed by Eastwood, there’s a quick scene of a rifle that seems designed to make the viewer hate it, considering the character that was just killed.

Perhaps it’s just fair to say Eastwood is… complicated. It’s a career that almost seems to unintentionally represent a nation accepting, but then beginnng to reconsider its attachment to guns. Even aside from the gun issues, there’s the much-admired car as central image, at at time we’re finally increasingly aware that sustainable living will be key to our survival. It may not be entirely fair to impose all this on the film, but I can’t help but think of it. Gran Torino is a curiously transitional early twenty-first century film: nostalgic even as it’s progressive, sincere but dated. Judging by the reviews on amazon and elsewhere, Americans loved it. What the rest of the world might appreciate about it is that it could be the final acting bow from a man with a remarkable career. And maybe everyone recognizes somehow that it’s a film about how the country is changing, or needs to change, even if it stars a man who grew up in a very different America.

The Bad Sleep Well (1960)

Loosely based on Hamlet, but set in the Japanese corporate world, The Bad Sleep Well is one of the films by Akira Kurosawa that doesn’t appear to be as celebrated as some others. The director is a legendary one — Kurosawa made thirty films that have had a far-reaching influence in the film world, including various Samurai films I’ve found particularly memorable. Seven Samurai (1954) about a small band of samurai deciding to defend a village from bandits was translated into gunslingers and remade as The Magnificent Seven (1960), even as Yojimbo (1961) was remade as A Fistful of Dollars (1964). The Hidden Fortress (1958) is a film George Lucas acknowledges as an influence — there’s a scarred villain who wears a mask, a princess, and a couple of bickering harmless men caught up in the narrative would eventually be translated by Lucas into R2D2 and C3PO.

The film has a handful of remarkably intense performances as Nishi (Toshiro Mifune) investigates the death of his father, an apparent suicide from the seventh floor of the construction corporation where he worked. During his investigation there are no literal ghosts, but he does corral one passive, nervous participant in the affair to saunter out and make appearances after he’s believed to be dead. The performances are almost over the top, but don’t quite go too far, instead managing to convey the intensity of shifting alliances and uncertain times.  The score mixes powerful, dramatic music with strangely chipper music that seems oddly inappropriate during dramatic moments. The settings in the film manage to include both current, living corporate environments and the industrial desolation left behind.  

The trailer remarks “This towering masterpiece is a must-see for today’s public,” and while I’m not quite sure I’d use those terms exactly (and that’s a hell of a statement for a trailer that precedes public reaction to the film by two weeks) I do think it’s an impressive and timeless film, and an engaging one despite a two hour, thirty-two minute running time. Kurosawa is undoubtedly a director who created films that have remained relevant whatever subject he tackled. The end of The Bad Sleep Well may be a subtle and quiet one (and in that sense at least, isn’t much like Hamlet), but it’s also a remarkably powerful ending.

The X-Files: I Want to Believe (2008)

Imagine a character with such relentless good luck even a hired assassin can’t put a dent in his day. Nobody understands why, he just seems to be at the epicentre of good luck somehow. The X-Files TV series had some great stand-alone episodes, probably stories that are among the best ones I’ve seen on television. At the same time, the series fumbled the romance between Scully and Mulder — it was as hesitant and slow-moving at the ongoing, increasingly convoluted conspiracy plot that seemed to devote entire episodes to Mulder and Scully poking around a warehouse with a flashlight. To complicate matters in the last few years of the show, David Duchovny became part-time on the series, and producers had to introduce two new agents, Doggett and Reyes (Robert Patrick and Annabeth Gish) to carry the show. The new actors did an admirable job of being real, likeable and interesting, but took a backseat (and with all hell breaking loose, don’t even get a farewell scene) in a fairly muddled 2-hour finale that sees Duchovny return, and once again hammers away at the conspiracy story. After an entire TV series, it seemed as if the producers didn’t know how to properly resolve the conspiracy, or do anything other than take one step forward and two steps back, resolving a few things even as other questions are raised. Whatever happened to Doggett and Reyes, fellas? Hello?

Perhaps it’s better that The X-Files: I Want to Believe simply ignores all this, in favour of a film that’s also a stand-alone story, and could almost be about any retired agents coaxed back into service, not Mulder and Scully. The film begins with at least fifty agents marching in a straight line, all stabbing at the snow in search of a body part, though an priest — his long white hair loose in the wind — is capable of racing ahead to fall on the spot where the body part can be found, buried in the snow. Billy Connolly plays Father Joe Crissman, a priest who believes God sends him his visions. At the same time, he’s a priest defrocked for pedophilia. It’s an interesting quirk in the writing — give a character an appalling characteristic, and then challenge the viewer to believe he might also have visions from God. It isn’t the only examination of belief in the film — the central villain passionately believes in what he’s doing, and there’s a subplot with Scully deciding what to believe in an entirely different matter — a subplot that ends the film in an unexpectedly touching moment. In fact, I think it’s fair to say that in a way, the entire film builds up to her one word answer to a simple question before the credits roll.

The TV series had always handed Mulder evidence and took it away — Mulder sees an alien body, the viewer sees an alien body too, but government conspiracy lackeys take it away by the end of the episode (and they even get the videotape!). This film takes a different route, declining to present any absolute evidence about Father Joe either way. The conspiracy story in the TV series became tiresome because it didn’t amount to much more than a long game of hide and seek, but Frank Spotnitz and series creator Chris Carter have written a story where the viewer gets to decide, this time around. In an almost courageous move these days, chases and shootouts are kept to a minimum in favour of style, and story. And yes, this does mean the film is a little slow. Certainly, it could be a little shorter. Certainly, it didn’t need a scene where Mulder and Scully wait in a hallway to be admitted to a meeting, and there are a few scenes of awkward, expository dialogue. But I was pleasantly surprised with it by the time the credits rolled, accompanied by a new remix of the X-Files theme. My only complaint happens to be because I took time out to watch the TV series over last few years — couldn’t they have had two lines explaining what happened to Doggett and Reyes? Or even one line: “We’re running a restaurant now, we’re fine!”

The Wrestler (2008)

American writer Charles Bukowski said he preferred spending time with broken people — he found them much more interesting. So far, director Darren Aronofsky has demonstrated his own fascination with broken people, though I admit Requiem for a Dream (2000) left me cold. The film had some great performances, but felt heavy-handed and overly simplistic, so that the final statement doesn’t amount to much more than the title, little more than “Well, no point in having a dream.” It’s an artistic statement that isn’t to be found in a lot of more commercial films, but still a sentiment that can probably be found in a lot of high school poetry.  

The Wrestler is a very different film. It avoids telling the story of a broken man in quite so direct and heavy-handed a fashion, with a great central performance from Mickey Rourke. He appears to have been somehow destined for this part, given that he acted, left acting to test himself (as he puts it), in the ring for a period of time, and appears to have gone through some immensely difficult experiences, requiring reconstructive surgery for his face at one point. In other words, as Randy “The Ram” Robinson, he’s both an actor and someone that can invest the role with personal experience, for the performance of a lifetime. The film borrows a documentary feel for some scenes, as we follow Randy down corridors, through the staff room and into the deli where he works for a little extra cash, in a scene that parallels his odd birth (and rebirth) over and over again down aisles into the stadiums that provide the only real love he receives in the  form of audience screams, cheers and chants. There may be something false about it, but at least it feels to him it’s the only unadulterated appreciation he gets. Marisa Tomei is also excellent as a potential love interest for Randy. A scene in a bar demonstrates these characters are getting on  a little, given that they declare their love for eighties rock, and that the nineties sucked (and of course, it’s nearly ten years since the nineties). But though it’s believable, the relationship doesn’t peak in interest until near the end, when Randy needs to start making some choices.  

Just as important as the performances, director Aronofsky takes more time with one character (unlike Requiem, which covers multiple characters), and fleshes out Robinson as a character with limited means, but still in search of a happier life and the dignity he knows he deserves. The wrestling scenes can be hard to watch for all the blood, but I think it’s actually the scenes at the deli that flesh out the character a lot more, showing how happy and even playful he is in the right set of circumstances, and how miserable when life seems to conspire against him, or when he knows he has tripped himself up. By the time he jams a thumb in the meat-cutter, he’s a fully fleshed out character who prefers a sharp  dose of real pain to the dull ache he knows his life has become. I hope Aronofsky continues to do a thorough job of establishing the dignity his characters could have before he takes it away — it makes all the difference in terms of involving the viewer. The final shot of The Wrestler is one that stayed in my head for days, as did the rest of the film.

The Lonely Man (1957)

A remarkably under-appreciated Western — it isn’t even in my handy-dandy 1570 page movie guide — I was originally attracted to this film for the simplicity of the title as well as the cast. It features Jack Palance as a reformed gunfighter and Anthony Perkins as his son.  Palance plays Jacob Wade, interested to start a new life with a son he didn’t raise, provided former enemies will stay away, and a town somewhere will actually let them stay.  Palance is both understated and excellent, and Anthony Perkins so mellow as his bitter, abandoned son it seemed a little like he was just proving he’d memorized his lines. But in a stark, beautifully shot, black and white film understated performances work better than overblown ones so as not to distract from a quiet, simple and beautifully told story.

There’s even a fairly obvious, beautiful but elusive symbol for happiness quite literally charging through the film infrequently, along with great shots of actors (or possibly stunt people) galloping at full-speed through the landscape with such rousing music it made me want to buy a flippin’ horse.  

Watch Jacob Wade make contact with his son again here. The movement Perkins brings to the scene is so languid it manages to be slightly puzzling even as it suggests he’s drunk, and depressed. And the music isn’t overdone — it registers with the viewer, but declines to do anything more than remain mournful, even after the one moment of action in the scene.  

I’ve been given the impression a lot of Westerns were produced in the fifties, but this one deserves to be among those remembered — it may have the kind of closure you predicted from the early moments, but it’s still a remarkably satisfying and well-crafted film. Unforgiven (1992) with Clint Eastwood won four Academy Awards, telling the story of a man who leaves a peaceful life of retirement to become a gunslinger again, for reasons that don’t seem terribly valid by the end of the film. The Lonely Man got there first, though it tells the story the other way around. It’s a film that deserves better than to be discontinued on DVD.

Death Rides a Horse (1967) and Shalako (1968)

So intense-looking he played intimidating characters even as an elderly actor, Lee Van Cleef is among my favourite actors in the Western genre.  He has small parts in impressive Westerns like High Noon (1952) with Gary Cooper, Gunfight at the O.K. Corral (1957) with Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas, and The Tin Star (1957) with Henry Fonda and Anthony Perkins.  Finally, he had much larger roles in most of the Sergio Leone trilogy with Clint Eastwood, appearing in For a Few Dollars More (1965) and The Good the Bad and the Ugly (1966).  As far as I’m aware Death Rides a Horse is among the few Westerns with him as the hero, so I was a little dismayed when it began with a long, unclear shot of rain and horses and opening credits that looked as though a college student had done them. But the film finds its way, and while a little slow it’s an extremely satisfying Western, if a little typical of the spaghetti Western revenge story. With a score by Ennio Morricone, this one deserves a better quality release on DVD.  

Shalako stars Sean Connery, having turned down Bond for the first time, and apparently interested to do a Western as a fan of the genre. The film is interesting for the cast — Brigitte Bardot, Stephen Boyd as a villain, and Connery is reunited with his costar Honor Blackman from Goldfinger (1964), certainly one of the better Bond films ever made. Unfortunately, Shalako doesn’t ever really feel like it gets off the ground. The plot concerns an aristocratic hunting party that couldn’t care less they’re on an Apache reservation. When they’re brought clear proof the Apache are upset but prove too pompous and stupid to simply ride off the reservation before daybreak, the viewer begins to wonder why Shalako (Connery) helps them at all, except for the vaguely implied suggestion you’re supposed to help your own ethnic group, no matter what. Most of the dialogue involves characters grumbling at each other, and most of the action involves characters shooting wildly at each other across long distances. Sadly, Shalako is a passable Western and not the film it should have been considering the cast.

Bad Day at Black Rock (1955)

Spencer Tracy received an Oscar nomination for this short, eighty minute, fairly slow and quiet film where he plays John J. Macreedy, arriving by train to a small town where the train hasn’t stopped in four years — a small town with something to hide. “What do you want?” is among the first things said to him at the station.

It’s the sort of town that would have maybe been a frontier town once, but the frontier has been conquered and now there’s a lot of sitting around to do.  Without much happening, the arrival of a stranger causes a stir.  It’s almost as though there are casual chases in the film, with characters sauntering around, sizing each other up.  Despite taking place a few months after the close of the Second World War, the film has elements of a Western. The sheriff and doctor seem like they have the potential to be decent men, but they share the same secret as the rest of the town, and having been “consumed by apathy,” they’re reduced to meek conformity unless Macreedy can prod them into action. The town is run by Reno Smith (Robert Ryan) and his muscle comes in the form of two men, played by Lee Marvin and Ernest Borgnine. Between very few action sequences, the pressure begins to build again, with the Tracy character given lines like “You’re not only wrong, you’re wrong at the top of your voice.” In fact, there’s quite a bit of good dialogue here, as well as impressive direction and a striking, if slightly overdone score.

I wouldn’t want to give away the end of the film, or too much more about it, except to say it’s a pleasure to watch such a carefully made film that takes its time saying what it wants to say, including subtle statements about the evils of conformity versus the dangers involved with active indivduality. Tracy is remarkable at playing a character that seems the personification of calm and intelligence.

Watchmen (2009)

For the uninitiated, Watchmen presents an alternate but oddly familiar 1985 where superheroes are real, but are largely people who were loopy or determined enough to simply put on a mask.  It’s a world where Nixon is still the president and the cold war threatens nuclear annihilation. There’s one truly powerful, nearly godlike superhero, who goes by Dr. Manhattan. And somehow, despite his helping America win the Vietnam war, America is spiritually running on empty and masked vigilantes of all kinds are outlawed, so they either retired or became hunted and bitter. And it’s all based on a graphic novel, which was a mini-series of comics published in 1986 / 1987.

So, got all that?  Now here’s what to expect: film noir with superheroes.  Rorschach (a man with a constantly changing Rorschach blot on his mask) narrates much of the first two-thirds of the film while skulking through back alleys and rain, finally taking the audience on a tour of some memories that make The Dark Knight seem fairly mild. Eventually, even some of the more supposedly well adjusted heroes slowly reveal that they drink too much, are guilty of rape, or whatever else. Meanwhile, Dr Manhattan is powerful and serene, but increasingly distant, and becoming some kind of cosmic Buddha.

Is there a point to all this? There is, and without going into the ending, it’s something about the slow, faulty movements in the direction of progress and the tremendous costs, both in terms of wasted energy and lives lost. For a comic book (or graphic novel, depending on how much respect you’re willing to award the whole genre) Watchmen does have something to say about the larger struggle, and something it thankfully doesn’t want to spell out too much, either.

The film has a tidy bundle of interesting moments, as well as a pile of entertaining ones, though I think this particular story ultimately works better as a graphic novel. Been a while since I read it, but as a comic it isn’t quite so obvious it borrows from film noir, even as a comic made in the late eighties is just that, even if it happens to have been reprinted later. A movie made for 2009 seems a little out of place in an era where climate change and lack of bio-diversity are bigger concerns than nuclear war, and a time when a lot of people would say the president seems like a pretty decent guy. It works well that there’s a cast of relative unknowns here, but the whole idea that they’re regular folks (and in addition to that, regular folks who haven’t suited up in years) is hurt by the eventual Matrix-like action scenes that don’t even seem to leave them winded. At other times, the faithfulness to the comic appears to have been a little too strong — it’s fine to have shots designed to reproduce specific frames or art, but there’s one sex scene that’s broken down into a series of disjointed, fairly typical moments, and between that and the cheesy music, people actually laughed.

I did find myself personally wishing the film was a little more balanced. Part of the appeal with costumed heroes is their duality: Bruce Wayne chats pleasantly at parties but Batman descends into alleys to beat up sleazeballs. In subtle ways, I think it comments on the duality of the real world. After all, we need both warm family homes and cold warehouses. Watchmen is strong on dismal material, and only offers a few glimmers of hope at the end. And forget Bruce Wayne aching for his lost parents, there’s a lot of domestic hostility in occasional flashbacks. At one point, Dr Manhattan sits on Mars contemplating if he’ll help mankind, looking out over the pristine landscape to ask how it would be improved by an oil pipeline or a shopping mall. It’s really an irrefutable and devastating argument. He comes up with a few lines about beauty managing to emerge out of chaos, but nobody states the only possible reply to his original question: certainly, it isn’t worth it for an oil pipeline or a shopping mall, but it might be worth it for a symphony or an act of kindness. Both as a comic and a deeply faithful translation into film, Watchmen takes the view that we may need to endure any number of irredeemable moments to fluke into one progressive step forward. It may not be my cup of tea as a world-view, but I certainly can’t fault the film for declining to make a statement.

Let the Right One In (2008)

Several months ago I began hearing about an inventive Swedish vampire film with the intriguing title Let the Right One In.  It sounds like a poetry book, or a novel — certainly a far cry from the titles of most horror films. The plot concerns Oskar, a sensitive 12 year old in a perpetual state of distress, constantly picked on at school by a small gang of three kids.  In a scene where one of the kids is told to whip Oskar by their leader, the kid does it, but bursts into tears partway through the task — and I have to say, it’s a thoughtful film that makes it clear without spelling it out that bullies thrive on spineless followers as much as their own anger. I won’t say too much about the film and ruin it for others, but Oskar meets Eli, a 12 year old girl who appears to be rather special, and the two form a bond, as they’re both already old enough to instinctively know something about loneliness.  It’s beautifully shot, with excellent performances, a minimal score (at least, I don’t remember a score) and a unique take on vampires. Much is made of the old idea that you need to invite a vampire into your home before he or she can enter, and it becomes symbolic of carefully choosing the people that are close to you.

The film reminded me of Habit (1997) a somewhat clunky but ultimately mesmerizing low-budget New York film where vampirism is a metaphor for clinging people and needy relationships. It’s directed by Larry Fessenden who also plays the lead character, falling hard for a vampire named Anna (Meredith Snaider, in her first and only film) and finding the relationship like quicksand — he simply can’t seem to untangle himself. Both films take the well-worn idea of a vampire and use it as a springboard to get to other ideas. Habit is the colder and harsher film, outlining various ideas (sometimes in speeches by the characters that seem a little too direct) but thankfully never really spelling out the needy relationship metaphor. Let the Right One In, on the other hand, takes the vampire premise and grows a sincere and touching story around it, making its point through more subtle emotional content, so that it’s ultimately the more successful of the two.  At the same time, I sincerely appreciate any fresh take on such an old idea, and Habit is not to be missed.

The Hitch-Hiker (1953)

Director Ida Lupino — an early woman filmmaker who got into directing because a director fell ill and she was on the set as an actor — crafts an impressive story here based on a real-life 1950 story.  Billy Cook murdered six people before taking two men as kidnap victims on a ride to Mexico, where he hoped to escape but was captured. The psychopathic hitchhiker in this film is named Emmett Myers, and portrayed by William Talman. His performance is the best thing about the film — he seems like resentment personified as he prods the two men along, and terrifically creepy as he sleeps with one damaged eye literally open and directed at the two men.

A lot of the shock value has been lost in more than fifty years, and the violence is too clean to be terribly believable, a bit like the violence in old Westerns where people can shoot guns out of each other’s hands.  I do wonder if it was considered a little tastless to produce the film three years after six people were killed, even with all the names changed. Thankfully, Lupino takes the time to make all the characters seem human, even Emmett Myers, though he’s clearly damaged beyond hope of repair.  There’s also an impressive scene where the car was apparently filmed by another one ahead of it with a camera on a trailer, so we’re able to follow it over bumps and down small hills. It’s enough to make you wish for more innovative moments, but Lupino has done extremely well, encouraging strong performances in an engaging film. The only disappointment is the somewhat abrupt ending.  Just how deep do the phychological scars go after spending days captured by Myers? We’re not quite sure, the men get a couple of lines and limp away into the tall shadows so often found in film noir.

Fear in the Night (1947)

A man wakes up from a nightmare that he murdered someone, only to discover blood on his hand, and a key in his pocket that wasn’t there before. Nearly twenty years before he played Leonard “Bones” McCoy in the original Star Trek, DeForest Kelley was in this low-budget, smash hit crime film I’m tempted to call film noir, except it probably isn’t quite dark enough. While I love older films, something in this style has become a cultural curiosity — men wear hats, they smoke, they slap each other around, and women basically just sigh passively at everything.

Playing Bones McCoy didn’t just define the rest of his career, it became the rest of his career, through no fault of his own.  Before that, Kelley was in an impressive range of films and TV pilots (some that never became a series), though the only things I’ve ever been able to actually see on DVD are this film, and Gunfight at the OK Corral (1957) where he plays alongside Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas.

By all accounts a quiet and pleasant man, Kelley happens to be the only Star Trek cast member who never wrote a memoir of any kind, though it’s probably the one I’d most want to read. As an actor, he has a fascinating face, though his range is  either limited or a bit saddled by awkwardness, depending on how you look at it. He isn’t a terrible actor, but he’s one of those actors that seems to only sometimes snap into the role and become completely natural.

Still, he’s the best actor in Fear in the Night, which is full of dialogue that was probably meant to sound original but instead sounds awkward. An old man says “Oh, that clock is a little slow, just like the horse I had yesterday,” and the future Bones McCoy (it’s so hard to disassociate him from that role) simply puts on his hat and walks away. The narration by Kelley says once or twice that it felt like his “brain was handcuffed,” which must be one of the most awkward images I’ve heard in a while, considering handcuffing a brain would actually be a bit of a challenge. Kelley is playing a twenty-four year old here, but is one of those actors that appears to have been born looking forty.

Regardless, it’s a tidy little film that wraps up after about 71 minutes, and a fascinating glimpse into the early career of an actor that would become a cultural icon.  I recall reading an interview with Kelley where he said after Star Trek he turned down various doctor roles to try and avoid typecasting, and then when nothing else was offered he took stuff that was worse than the roles he’d turned down, until finally the Star Trek films came along.  But if Trek was a blessing and a curse, Kelley dealt with it with his trademark gentlemanly behaviour, married to his wife Carolyn until his death in 1999.  It happened to be the month I turned thirty, and I recall drunkenly toasting him over and over at my celebration, on a patio with a bunch of friends. I’m sorry, DeForest. I meant to be classier about it, I really did.  But I was sincere in saying you’ll be missed, and the world needs more people like you, the less egocentric kind that know they’re just playing a part.

To watch McCoy and Spock try to get along when Kirk ain’t around, click here.

Slumdog Millionaire (2008)

Danny Boyle is becoming one of my favourite directors.  28 Days Later and Sunshine are both reviewed here, and like his original hit Trainspotting, they’re both highly original and worthwhile offerings.

His latest is Slumdog Millionaire, which begins with a character originally from the slums of Mumbai named Jamal (Dev Patel) being tortured by police because he’s on his way to winning phenomenal amounts on “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,” and it’s assumed he’s cheating. The film has a nifty narrative structure, where Jamal explains his ability to answer certain game show questions in a way that also allows him to illustrate parts of his life. Aside from this, the film enjoys a frantic energy in well-edited scenes that carry the viewer along at an impressive pace. As a director, Boyle often has impressive touches — Sunshine (his stab at science-fiction) has flashes of a doomed original crew as a new crew enters their ship and explores.

All the acting is decent, if not outstanding, and if some characters are a little unremarkable it’s easy to forgive while being carried along by such an interesting film. Oddly enough, the game show host emerges as a more memorable character than most, for being as creepily charming as he is secretly abrasive and slimy.

I’m a little torn about the political content of the film, if you can call it that (and stop reading here if you don’t want to know a thing about the ending).  Certainly, the slums are portrayed as a place where human life has little value, and bodies are mangled if it serves a need.  People have nothing, and predators are everywhere.  But it’s all eventually put to the side as the main characters become reasonably successful and a love story develops, with eventual freedom as easy as someone handing you the keys to a car parked nearby.

You can think of it two ways, really: it’s either troubling that people will go out and buy the pop music soundtrack without really stopping to consider what to do about a system that allows for such squalor and misery, or Boyle is using the film as a vehicle to introduce the injustice to a great many people, and make it palatable. I tend to think that the film reaches a compromise on that point — not every character ends up happy (though the happy ending is ultimately dominant), and the first half of the film at least toys with a stronger message, even if that message does ultimately feel put to the side. Slumdog Millionaire ain’t perfect, but it is highly recommended.  Just like any other Danny Boyle film I’ve seen.

Lars and the Real Girl (2007)

Canadian actor Ryan Gosling is note-perfect as a reclusive, small town guy that announces to close friends and eventually the whole town that he has a girlfriend — a girlfriend that turns out to be a life-size doll found online.

In a film like this, I waited for is the heavy-handed “aren’t people nasty and closed-minded” moment, where a group of people tear the doll from him, and despite his urgent pleading, refuse to return it. In The Elephant Man (1982) it worked well to have the central misfit character pursued by a mob calling him an animal, because it drove home the point that the animal was the mob, not him.  Since then, this kind of dramatic scene has become the most obvious way to point out that people should be more compassionate.

But nothing like that happens. This is a remarkably well-paced, gentle and funny film that doesn’t need to resort to anything overly dramatic, even as the characters (and Lars, our misfit hero) do grow and change. The film never mocks the characters, or introduces a moustache-twirling villain of some kind who conspires to get rid of the doll. Instead, it’s a portrayal of compassion and growth, and in its own quiet way, a pretty remarkable little film.  Screenwriter Nancy Oliver (who wrote for the HBO series Six Feet Under, and now True Blood) has done an admirable job here.

The Sea Inside (2004)

For those of you who were a little alarmed by Javier Bardem as the killer in No Country for Old Men, so unstoppable he seemed like fate itself, here he is in an utterly different role.  He’s no less excellent as real-life quadriplegic Ramon Sampedro, who broke his neck as a young man when he dove into shallow water, spent the rest of his life bedridden and cared for by his family, and fought unsuccessfully to have the legal right to end his life, arguing that he no longer lived with dignity.  Regardless of your position on that particular argument, this is a great drama, with a supporting cast of well acted, interesting characters.  Sampedro wrote a book before passing away with the assistance of friends who agreed to help him along, so it appears the filmmakers had lots of material to work with.  It also appears he was a remarkably charming and intelligent man, and people tended to visit with reverence (though a sequence where he argues with a self-satisfied priest about the right to end your life is an exception to that).

The scene where he imagines himself able to fly out the window is near the middle of a film, and it’s a quite beautiful centrepiece to an otherwise solid, fairly straightforward but interesting drama.  Recommended.

Starting Out in the Evening (2007)

Slow and measured but flawlessly acted, Starting Out in the Evening features a great performance by Frank Langella as elderly New York writer Leonard Schiller, author of four carefully crafted novels now out of print (but highly praised by some), and at work on a fourth he hopes to complete before his death. Langella has made a career out of note-perfect supporting roles such as Perry White in Superman Returns, but here gets the lead role, an opportunity he must have relished and certainly didn’t squander.  Lili Tayler is also excellent as his concerned and loyal daughter, and Lauren Ambrose (Six Feet Under) as a determined young student (Heather Wolfe, and giving the character the name “Wolfe” is about the only heavy-handed element in the film) working on a thesis about Schiller and making visits to his life that come closer and closer to disrupting it.

Schiller has already had one heart attack, and explains to Wolfe in an early scene that at the hospital “They cracked me open like a lobster.”  It’s typical of the good writing to be found here, and nice to see a film that isn’t hurried in the way it realistically portrays the elderly writer and student as a sort of slow-motion accident, with Wolfe slowly becoming a bigger and bigger part of his life. This isn’t to say the Schiller character gets nothing out of it — as calm and gentlemanly as he is, it’s hard to imagine a character that detests adoration. But I do admire a film that takes its time, given that some dramas hurl their characters into suffering straight away and expect the viewer to care despite not taking the time to illustrate who it is we’re supposed to care about.  Even Wolfe, as potentially harmful as she is, is given a scene at a party where the competitive academic world is illustrated well enough to demonstrate what motivates her. Recommended as a nearly flawless drama that manges to be about writing, ageing, relationships, ambition, and even certain peripheral elements, like New York.

Once (2007)

I wonder if the term “organic musical” makes any sense, in terms of describing a musical that has naturally occurring music instead of… well, you know, hundreds of people on the street suddenly grabbing umbrellas to dance with, and breaking into song with a tune that comes out of nowhere.

Once is such an organic musical, as it’s the story of a busker on the streets of Dublin who meets a woman who inspires him, and for a while they team up as musical talents and produce an album. That’s it, that’s the story. What’s great about the film is the low-budget charm, the sincere performances, the not entirely  predictable storyline (and, I’m not revealing here if they become romantically involved, you’ll have to see the film) the excellent music that takes up about half the film, and as I’ve said, the fact that it blends perfectly into the film.  I suspect the title refers to those times that the tides sweep a few people together to accomplish something or at least inspire each other to feel differently somehow, and then sweep them away again… just as chance allowed an indie filmmaker to produce a little gem with an obscure cast of actors that will likely never work together again.  A film like Once only happens once in a while.

The Savages (2007)

I like a film that has a character throw out a real-sounding, interesting line like “He won’t marry me, but when I fix him eggs, he cries.”  People are complex.  Whitman said, “I contain multitudes,” and he said it without apology.  I do appreciate a film that acknowledges this in subtle ways.  It’s unfortunate, then, that the next scene has the same woman cooking eggs, and her boyfriend eating them and crying.  American mainstream films can be ridiculously heavy-handed, but it seems even in their art films they’re tempted to say “Look, see?  Get it?”

It’s Philip Seymour Hoffman crying over eggs, as a somewhat listless character letting his girlfriend go back to Poland on an expired Visa (rather than marry her), and forced to spend time with his somewhat listless sister, played by Laura Linney, when the two of them need to deal with their elderly, dying father.  Written and directed by Tamara Jenkins, the film is lucky to feature these two terrific American actors, who take a good script and make sure it’s as touching and meaningful as it can possibly be.  Despite these actors, the result is somewhat mixed.  I appreciate films that tell a small story extremely well, and while The Savages is admirable for not flinching away from painfully awkward moments — such as asking your elderly father if he would prefer burial or cremation –  I can’t honestly say those painfully awkward moments elicited much response from me at all, except to note how pretty damn painful and awkward they looked.

It isn’t my intention to sound jaded or uncaring, but I think we can all guess that it’s a difficult thing to take a fiercely independent, decaying man and put him in a nursing home.  Those of us who have been through it already know, and those of us who haven’t can take a pretty good guess.  In between these moments, we get serious hints he was an abusive father, and that the brother and sister (who grew up to be a writer and an academic) can’t maintain relationships.  Why did they both become writers, and what are they trying to accomplish in such a listless, pre-defeated way?  These are interesting questions the film deals with only occasionally, in favour of scenes where the Linney character is racing around the nursing home to find the big red pillow she bought for her father, or her long pause after she’s handed some diapers and told he’ll be needing them.  It isn’t that it’s a terrible film, and certainly a lot of truthful moments about individual struggles and elderly parents are captured here, in scenes that are flawlessly acted.  I just wanted to know a little more about what happened in the Savage family to deserve that choice of name, and these two struggling siblings, who seem to be among the good and the wounded.

Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring (2004)

Given that this is a film with a great deal of sublety and grace from Korean director Kim Ki-Duk, it’s unfortunate that launching into a plot description makes it sound overly simplistic, and like something you don’t really need to see.  But really, this is one of the most beautiful films I’d seen in years. It involves a tiny Buddhist monastery — small enough to be a tiny island in the middle of the lake — where a senior monk and his young apprentice live, and each chapter in the film follows the seasons listed in the title, but also matches a different chapter in the life of the younger character, so in Spring he’s a child, in Summer a young man, and so on. It’s a slow and pensive film, not even slightly rushed until the Winter chapter, but full of excellent moments, and if it happens to be slightly heavy-handed at times, it more than makes up for it with its intelligence, uniqueness, reverence, beauty and wisdom.  I won’t go into detail describing the scene where the older monk says goodbye to the younger one, except to say it’s a simple goodbye, and one of my favourite moments in film. Comments from the director indicate he not only wanted to cover the cyclical nature of life, but the whole range of emotions it encompasses. He succeeds remarkably well.

The Dark Knight (2008)

The origin and exploration of any superhero seems to last about two films, with the franchise often struggling the third time out. We’ve seen this over and over: two good Superman films with Christopher Reeve, and then a daft, comic third film with Richard Pryor, or two Spider-Man films that manage to do what they’re trying to do without overextending themselves, and then a third that’s something of a cartoonish mess. Even though it’s all fantasy, a decent narrative and dialogue make the difference between a passable popcorn film and something more interesting and worthwhile.

The Batman franchise has a lot going for it: a small boatload of interesting villains and a compelling — in some ways, completely messed up — central hero. Despite that, when the series was first kick-started with Tim Burton’s Batman in 1989, we still got only two good films (the second was Batman Returns in 1992) before the series was yanked away from Burton and driven into the ground about as quickly as it could be done, thanks to a couple of instantly forgettable films packed with colourful but cardboard villains. The series could have gone on far longer but it became like a kid at Christmas that opens all his gifts so quickly he doesn’t really stop to enjoy anything.

As a result of this swing from huge hits to dismal failures, the franchise was put on hold, then rebooted all over again with Batman Begins (2005) and The Dark Knight (2008), both directed by Christopher Nolan.  While the Burton films were appropriately dark, and operated from a lavishly created, operatic Gotham city, the Nolan films are even darker for being grounded in reality and presenting a more recognizable Gotham, even as it’s filled with decay, and danger. As much as I admire their style, the Burton films had Batman alternately trouncing street punks or facing off against the higher class of villain, but there didn’t seem to be much connection between the two. The Nolan films somehow manage to present Gotham like it’s one massive wounded creation, with the more heavy-hitting villains growing out of a background of street punks, mob bosses, corrupt politicians, or different cops and lawyers.  As far as the level of drama is concerned, this is the sort of thing that makes all the difference.

It’s with this background supporting him that Heath Ledger plays the Joker like a mad squirrel loose in a candy shop — he’s not actually physically imposing, but frantically charged with devotion to chaos, and he’s excellent, but I think it’s also fair to say it’s a performance that would be less potent in a less detailed film.  Even the score supports his performance, with no theme at all whenever he appears, in favour of a low, orchestral rising shriek. I don’t think I’d call it a “richly thrilling crime saga,” as they suggest over at Rotten Tomatoes, but the new Batman film is almost flawlessly done, and certainly a satisfying film. My only complaint is that I think the action peaks with the car chase where the Joker is captured for a time, and the final action sequence isn’t as impressive, particularly next to the unfolding drama with the two ships. And there’s even more after that in a long denoument that isn’t nearly as engaging. But that’s nitpicking — The Dark Knight is the best superhero film ever, and simply a good film on top of that. The question now is, can they pull this off a third time, and accomplish something that has never been done before?

Tarzan of the Apes (1932)

The original Edgar Rice Burroughs novel by the same title (1914) must be among the worst novels I’ve ever read — a wandering plot, blatant statements about British superiority (after all, drop an infant from the British empire into the jungle and naturally they take charge, right?) and a lack of any real attention to detail.  At one point Tarzan has an arm nearly completely torn off, but despite being away from any real medical attention he just… gets better.  For all that, Burroughs at least explains his origins from parents marooned after a mutiny, and has Tarzan evolving in the book, learning French and then English before finally returning to England to pursue Jane Porter. 

I was curious about the 1932 film with champion swimmer Johnny Weissmuller as Tarzan, undoubtedly the most famous man in the role, the one who starred in a dozen films, and the creator of the famous Weissmuller yell, sometimes rumoured to be a sound effect created using a yodeler.

But first, the film gives us Jane Porter and family and friends, commenting that Africa is an “awful hole,” arranging for their servants to be whipped and plunging through the jungle to shoot whatever animals they see.  To call the film dated is something of an understatement.  Needless to say, they encounter Tarzan (who sports medium-length, well styled hair), there are some impressive scenes of a stuntman swinging around, and other stuntmen choking lions while pretending to stab them.  Somehow his buddy Cheetah can communicate complicated instructions to elephants, who are always ready to kick some butt for old Tarzan. Tarzan also seems to be able to communicate a lot with that scream of his, and rides elephants and hippos like they’re cabs in New York.  Jane screams a lot, except when she wants to blow the head off a hippo, and the film finally doesn’t offer the slightest explanation as to what Tarzan is doing there, or who he is.

Despite good production values for 1932 it’s all pretty laughable, and yet as I write this in 2008 I can’t say I live in an enlightened twenty-first century.  We’re seriously lacking conservation efforts, and as both Canadians and Americans head into elections, we can’t seem to decide in favour of more progressive governments, despite a desperate need to address climate change and many other issues.  Ah, Tarzan — you’re a quaint reminder of just how stupid we stilll are.

Dead Man (1995)

Dead Man is a wandering but fascinating artistic Western from director Jim Jarmusch (and, if you like one Jim Jarmusch film you’ll probably like them all). It’s a film with both amusing and horrific moments, built with a series of small, often nearly perfect scenes the way a poem is one careful line after another. It only suffers from a limited, repetitive score that begins to feel like the same guy hammering away on a guitar because, well, that’s exactly what it is. It was a bold move to score it this way, but the film deserves better than a self-conscious and distracting score. There’s also a scene where one of the villains literally steps on and crushes a human head in a long, slow shot. Jarmusch has an admirable reputation for showing the moments between events and the images other directors might skip or cut away from, but this is simply a bit much in a film that’s already relentlessly grim. Setting the film in a period where life was cheaper and more of an ongoing struggle allows him to suggest certain thematic ideas: that we’re all doomed, it only remains to choose where you want to concentrate your desperate efforts before you’re gone. Despite a moment or two that might make you wince uncomfortably, Dead Man is a strong and memorable film, and well worth watching.

Children of Men (2006)

Children of Men is among the most terrifying films I’ve ever seen, mainly for the lack of faith and compassion pervading it.  There are always people around scoffing at the idea of religious faith, but I think the reality is that religious or otherwise people need some kind of faith (in goodness, in humanity, in art or society) to carry on, or at least to carry on humanely, happily, productively.

Children of Men is set in the near future, and though technically science-fiction it doesn’t feel like it in a heavy-handed way, any more than a film adaptation of 1984 would feel like it.   It’s a portrayal of a future where an eighteen year old is a celebrity simply for being the youngest person alive.  People have lost the ability to reproduce, leading to a gradual, increasing despair. Wisely, it’s never explained exactly how this happened, but the film witnesses a society soldiering on with the certain knowledge the end is near, meaning whatever you believe it, it’s coming to a close — there’s just one small, obscure hope that our central character stumbles across. It’s a grim scenario, and a flawlessly made, gripping film.  It works as a suspense film, as commentary, as drama too.  The acting and writing are also solid, with good performances from Clive Owen and Michael Caine as an elderly hippie.  The Michael Caine character is a complete relic himself, still trying to carve out and define a corner of the world according to his beliefs despite being nearly dead (and, at one point, the Owen character actually believes him to be dead when he’s asleep).

It’s possible to watch this relentlessly grim film and ask this question: what’s the point? And I have to admit, I’d have a hard time with the film if all this was for little purpose, but I think the portrayal of a world stripped of faith reminds us that it hasn’t gotten this bad yet, that there are still things worth fighting for. In a world where global warming, climate change, a lack of conservation and sustainable development all threaten to leave us impoverished, that certainly hits home, doesn’t it?

The Thin Red Line (1998)

This is certainly among the most amazing films I’ve ever seen. The idea of a poetic Second World War film that also happens to be utterly beautiful at times might seem a little odd. But it’s important to note the battle scenes are not gloriously filmed, just a lot of other moments, which means in a subtle way it asks why on earth we’d ever enter into such chaos. I’ve never seen a film that’s such a powerful anti-war statement, while at the same time it’s so far from lecturing the viewer. Director Terrence Malick has made few films compared with many other directors, shooting many hours of extra footage and then deciding to use that quick shot of a brilliant toucan, or whatever he chooses. Personally, I think quality counts more than quantity, and his films always make an impression. The Thin Red Line remains my favourite of his, for having an emotional impact and a statement that matches the visuals.

Bitter Harvest (How Harry Became a Tree) 2001

One of those small, important films, Bitter Harvest (originally released as How Harry Became a Tree) is an impressive modern fable about the perils of hanging on to hostility.  It stars Colm Meaney — best known as O’Brien on some of the Star Trek shows, but an actor with an impressive CV — as a local farmer in a small Irish town in the twenties who declares a popular pub owner his enemy, and swears to do all he can to bring him down.  After all, “a man is judged by his enemies.”  Cillian Murphy plays his son, unsure about his loyalties, handsome but also “not the brightest candle on the Christmas tree.”  Yugoslavian director Goran Paskaljevic keeps things fairly subtle until the end, but the dark humour and strangely fascinating moments (particularly at the end) are certainly underrated, and certainly not to be missed.  It’s unlikely this film will ever get a lot of attention, but I’d certainly like to see it happen.  And, despite the simplicity of the original title, I think it suits the peculiar qualities of a modern fable much better.  So, you’ll have to rent Bitter Harvest, but I hope you’ll consider it How Harry Became a Tree.

The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser (1975)

A slow moving drama by Werner Herzog that’s both beautiful and ugly at times, and suggests Kaspar Hauser, with his utter lack of experience or loyalties until a young adult saw the world with a clear, sometimes poetic, childish view. Bruno S. was a little too old to play someone found at seventeen, but does an amazing job of portraying a kind of ongoing, baffled purity and innocence — the scene where he doesn’t yet understand a candle will burn him is a remarkably well acted one.  Bruno S. was apparently much neglected in his own youth, and it would seem to be one of those rare cases where the lead isn’t an actor, but is nevertheless absolutely the right person for the role.  At the same time, I really couldn’t tell you why Herzog wants to concentrate on his feet so much.

Heartlands (2002)

Heartlands follows a kind and gentle man — watching characters mistreat him is a little like watching someone kick a dog — as he decides to follow his wife to Blackpool and try to win her back from another man.  It’s all a trifle simplistic, given that the other man is a complete wanker, but the film turns out to be a remarkably calm, original and thoughtful road trip film, with a zen central character who not only discovers a whole new life, but the remarkable things a change in perspective can do.  The characters he meets along the way are there briefly, but are so well-written they feel completely real, and suddenly the journey is far more interesting than the destination.  

The end isn’t quite what you’d expect, but I won’t give it away.  And by the time we get there, we’ve been treated to a number of small, excellent moments, some involving no words.  A film that’s unpretentious, yet unexpectedly charming and meaningful.

From Here to Eternity (1953)

Back when the world was black and white, the war reached a place called Pearl Harbour.  But first, you see some men and women.  Frank Sinatra is small and tough and Burt Lancaster is big and tough and Montgomery Clift is sensitive and tough.  Women walk by and the men say things like “Woo woo!”  Men also say things like “Anybody does any killin’ around here, I’ll do it.”  Men get drunk.  Women watch them.  Both men and women talk, and everyone has a little piece of pain.  The women and men kiss, and there are violins, sometimes lots of violins.  Sometimes men and women get along.  Sometimes they don’t.  One man and one woman go to a beach where there are waves and lots of violins and they pose in front of each other like tense deer.  They are happy at the beach and then they are sad at the beach.  

Some men are cruel and some men are pretty darn OK and just play the harmonica or whatever.  And, it’s a pretty darn sad world when the cruel ones get ahead.  In the final ten minutes or so the enemy invades, and even our best stock footage doesn’t stop them.  Burt Lancaster stands around with a machine-gun on his hip like it’s a giant, well… you know.   And me?  I just felt I’d spent my evening watching an overrated film, because I knew the part already about the cruel ones getting ahead sometimes, and I thought the violins were a bit much.  But Frank was good.  Good job, Frank.

Away from Her (2007)

Away from Her is a first feature-length film from Canadian director Sarah Polley, and I certainly hope she’s immensely proud of it, it’s an excellent film.  Based on an Alice Munro short story, it’s a simple story about a man losing his wife to Alzheimer’s, but remarkable for a number of qualities: the performances by Julie Christie and Gordon Pinsent, the score, a subtle and believable script.  As a director, Polley crafts the film without ever becoming heavy-handed — the camera is focused on one person at a table and pulls back slowly until that person slowly starts to look more and more alone.  And hey, how nice to see a great film where they’re doing things like mentioning Canadian Tire and sitting around reading Michael Ondaatje.  

If you have the time and a decent video store near you, try and track down I Shout Love, the short film by Polley, it’s also well worth seeing.

Open Range (2003)

As a director, Kevin Costner has certainly had his ups and downs.  On top of the world for the multiple  award-winning Dances With Wolves (1990), by the time The Postman (1997) arrived, it turned out to be a long post-apocalyptic buildup to two armies sitting on opposite sides of a battlefield, but then instead of a battle the two leaders get off their horses and smack each other around.  In slow motion, if I recall correctly.  I remember thinking “Er, what?”  It’s too bad the film was a misfire, the premise of a man in a post-apocalyptic world putting on the jacket of a dead postal worker and coming to represent hope is an intriguing one (the novel is sexist and full of clunky writing, but the film should have easily sidestepped those elements to  be a slam-dunk).  

With Open Range, Costner directs another Western, and it’s a film much more comfortable and confident, slowly building the characters and a story of injustice.  In fact, in an age where some films seem to expect you’ll feel sympathy for a character just because they’ve been immediately put through hell — and I can’t help but feel we should know characters better first – Open Range takes its time with everything, only building to one climactic shootout that doesn’t disappoint, though it can be a trifle confusing, and apparently the force of one bullet with a lot of righteousness behind it can pick a man up off his feet, which was news to me.  The score is impressive, and Costner and Robert Duvall are a pleasure to watch in this one.  Costner also makes the brave and very wise choice of giving his character little to say, so that we listen when he does talk, and he shares the stage admirably with Duvall.

Sunshine (2007)

From the director who brought us Trainspotting, this is an excellent sci-fi that combines the thoughtfulness of 2001 with some real sounding dialogue like we saw in Alien, all to the tune of an original premise. The concept is that the earth is frozen in the future, and a small group of scientists and astronauts are launched on a mission to re-ignite the sun, without having any idea what happened to the first team after they disappeared. 

There are very human moments (a character walks into a room, stares at a second character until the second characters says “Is that your apology?” The first one replies “Yes,” and they turn away from each other) and with all humanity hanging in the balance one simple decision that doesn’t seem unreasonable begins a chain of events that makes the mission an increasingly desperate one. The end is a little surreal, and not paying close attention can allow you to miss some important information, but it’s nothing that isn’t in keeping with the tone and thoughtfulness of the film. 

Like Blade Runner, this is one of those films that was fairly misunderstood on release (don’t expect a disaster movie, an action film or aliens, this is somewhere between a drama and an art film), but I believe it will eventually gather a following and be considered a classic.

The Wrong Man (1956)

This isn’t a particularly well recognized Hitchcock, but it’s one of my favourites for being a simple story, perfectly told.Henry Fonda is excellent as a straightforward and good man mistakenly assumed to be someone who’s held up a number of different stores. Though a somewhat slow and bleak film, the pace works well, allowing every step of the way to feel believable and it’s well acted, so we really care for the characters, and feel the strain on the suffering family. It doesn’t have any of the the overly memorable set pieces Hitchcock is famous for, but an outstanding film nonetheless, a portrait of the kind of silent suffering the average person down the street or your neighbour might be enduring.

The DVD includes a short documentary with a good analysis of the film.

Emile (2003)

After forty years in England, a man returns to reconnect with the family in Canada he feels he abandoned, and in a sense, betrayed. Given this fairly simple plot, viewers should expect a slow moving film that can drag a little. Matters aren’t helped by a tendency to show characters walking in slow motion, or staring sadly into space.What helps immensely is a great performance from Ian McKellen as the central character Emile, and a strong supporting cast of Canadian actors. There are also some well-written moments to be found here, and the film looks impressive considering the limited budget (the only time the lack of budget hurts the film is in an early scene, when Emile is leaving for Canada and has a brief exchange with another actor who isn’t English and doesn’t attempt the accent, making it obvious the scene was shot in Canada).

McKellen is so charming and kind as Emile that it almost makes forgiving him a non-issue to the viewer. And a few things go unexplained, such as why one of his brothers (seen in flashbacks) is so difficult, and exactly why Emile stayed away so long. But even if the film could have been a little more explicit, it stands as an enjoyable, if not overly memorable meditation on change and loss, regret and forgiveness.