102 - The Black Dahlia review

If the trailers led you to believe that The Black Dahlia is an edgy and bleak mystery, they lied. A murder mystery does casually wonder about the plot in the way a cockroach crawls about a pile of garbage, but the film has a different topic altogether; director Brian De Palma’s massive ego.

It would be difficult to pin the blame of this mess on anyone other than De Palma. Like most of his films, an even remotely coherent story takes a back seat to "masterful" tracking shots and his largely derivative sense of style. As the film progresses, I kept thinking about De Palma patting himself on the back and saying to himself, "Wow, Steven and George and Francis are really gonna dig this!"

Like the recently released Hollywoodland (reviewed by me last issue), the filmmakers make the mistake of placing emphasis on a fictional detective story instead of the featured real-life death. In Hollywoodland, this turned a potential great film into a merely good one. In The Black Dahlia, it leads to a mess as ugly and hard to look at as the mutilated corpse of its central victim.

Set in early 1950’s Los Angeles, we follow Officer Bucky Bleichert (Josh Hartnett) as he moves listlessly from one crime scene to the next, trying to solve the gruesome torture and murder of Elizabeth Short (Mia Kirshner), a would be actress who was so promiscuous that they consider the whole U.S. military a suspect. Her murder was real, but it might as well have been imaginary, as the film lacks anything that vaguely resembles insight or purpose.

Attempting to describe the plot in greater detail would be an exercise in masochism that I haven’t been up for since my last philosophy course. It would imply that it was around for some reason other than to justify its own existence. Elementary film rules such as consistency, structure, pacing, economy of characters, and even 2nd grade logic are ignored or disregarded altogether. Characters zip in and out of sight seemingly at random, conversations about bit players are mumbled so quickly that the screenwriter would have trouble following along. At the end, we get not one but two Deus Ex Machina monologues that might have shed light on things if they had any serious connection to the previous 100 minutes of story.

The cast looks way out of their element, modern stars having to slip into the skins of archetypes vastly unsuitable for them. Hartnett resembles the guy who sold me my shoes at Scheels more than he does a hard boiled police detective. As Hartnett’s partner, Aaron Eckhart proves that the tough guy role isn’t for everyone, and if he is a champion boxer, so am I. Scarlett Johansson and Hilary Swank manage not to completely embarrass themselves as the love interest, but neither seems to be there for any reason other than they are recognizable. The only cast member who comes out ahead is Kirshner, whose ultra brief scenes made for an awesome trailer (check out her even better role in TV’s 24).

De Palma has never been a great filmmaker. He has had some bright spots such as Carrie, Scarface (criminally overrated, pun intended), The Untouchables, and Casualties of War, but has made some serious clunkers, such as Snake Eyes or Femme Fatale. But at least his bad films usually had a few memorable moments and atmosphere, with the camerawork occasionally impressing instead of distracting. Not here; The Black Dahlia is a whole lot of gory nonsense, and easily one of the worst films of the year.

0.5 out of 5

101

I think Tom Harkin (D-IA) is a fucking scumbag.

100 - Hollywoodland review

Congratulations to me on my 100th post! To celebrate, I will post not only my most recent review, but my first review!




A couple of years ago, a close friend of mine purposefully ended his own life. He was a sad man, sure, but that didn’t mean his friends and family weren’t deeply shocked and confused. On the surface, he had a life that was far superior to that of most college students I knew. As I broke the bad news to some, a few times I was asked if he could have been murdered. It seems that when people are faced with horrible events with an answer beyond their grasp, some turn to conspiracy theories in order to provide the tidy explanation they need.

Hollywoodland reminded me of these same feelings of confusion and frustration. In 1959, George Reeves (Ben Affleck), who starred as Superman in an extremely popular TV series, was found dead in his home by his fiancée. Police rule it a suicide, but others feel differently. Louis Simo (Adrien Brody), one of those cynical private detectives that hunat so many film noirs, is hired by Reeves’ mother to investigate the death.

The seemingly open and shut case quickly multiplies in complexity for Louis. Bullet holes are found in the floor, bruises decorate Reeves’ body, his fiancée acts as suspiciously as possible, and he recently been injured in a car accident that may have been the result of foul play.

Reeves also had a girlfriend in the form of Toni Mannix (Diane Lane), who just so happens to be the wife of ruthless MGM head Eddie Mannix (Bob Hoskins). Their relationship was an interesting one, where Eddie approves of the affair and even finances it, under the condition that his wife be satisfied regardless of the cost. Toni buys Reeves anything he wants, but doesn’t have much interest in aiding his career; if Reeves had his own clout, he may lose interest in an aging married woman.

After landing the role of Superman, he dreads being typecast, and prays that no adults will watch. Indeed, he is typecast, and finds himself having to traipse around in a dopey outfit and being ridiculed out of more serious roles. He scores a part in From Here to Eternity, but at the screening, the audience constantly spouts Superman’s catch phrases, the editing knife annihilates his role. When we see him at the end, we’re looking at a very sad man, one with dreams that were rendered unobtainable by his own success.

Reeves’ story serves as the core of Hollywoodland, and by far the most interesting scenes are the flashbacks to his life. Louis’ efforts to juggle his growing obsession with the case and the needs of his estranged family fail to generate more than token interest when compared to the infinitely more captivating and sad tale of the reluctant TV icon. The detective story meanders, and while it builds tension in that we want to see the truth about Reeves’ death, it goes nowhere, as do the halfhearted attempts to draw comparisons between the two leads.

If Hollywoodland will be remembered for anything, it’s Reeves’ story. Affleck was a brilliant choice for the role, and he plays Reeves as he might play himself; alcoholic, moderately talented, a man whose primary strength rests in his slight charm, but with a promising career marked by disappointment. What a marvelous film this could have been had the filmmakers put the mystery on the backburner and focused primarily on the pain of a man who knew his early potential was never to be realized.

The film ends on an open note, leaving us to judge for ourselves whether or not Reeves’ demise was of his own invention or not. But what’s to wonder about? Despite a couple of odd circumstances, there exists no concrete evidence that Reeves was murdered. When death happens, it happens, and often to agonize over the details is an unnecessary trauma to endure, and a mistake this film makes. A better idea would be to investigate the life of the person, and get what you can from their story, because manipulating the past to suit one’s own conscience is a disservice to all involved, especially the deceased.

3 out of 5





Wedding Crashers is a film about one good supporting actor and one terrible supporting actor. They both sign up for an R-rated summer comedy that has a vulgar, witless, terrible script. Before they know it, Satan is proved to be real as audiences flock to their film, and before long it makes over $200 million during a year where audiences are supposedly staying home.

Wait, sorry. My mistake. What I just wrote was the real-life story behind Wedding Crashers, not the story of the film itself. To say the film is witless probably doesn't do it justice; it is as if they made the funniest film in history, examined the funny scenes, and decided to reshoot them all, only doing the exact opposite of the original content. The jokes are sophomoric, stupid, tasteless, witless, and stupid, all at once.

Not a single good performance is turned in. Owen Wilson is terrible, devoid of any charm and reading his lines from a cue card and pretending to be stoned without actually being stoned. Vince Vaughn has proven his worth before, but trades in his usual sarcastic calm for a slightly panicked jerkiness. Christopher Walken is in many scenes, but obviously the producers thought that simply having Walken around is funny, because he is not assigned one single joke. Will Ferrel turns in a cameo as the most over-exposed idiot in show business. Wait, there I go again, confusing the plot of the film with real life. In the film, he plays a funeral crasher.

Every character is achingly unsympathetic. Wilson and Vaughn play two dickheads who come to weddings uninvited to score with lovelorn chicks. Both are total liars and frauds, even to each other. The script demands that Wilson fall in love with Rachel McAdams after four minutes of movie flirting, and her character is a grade A bitch for cheating on her fiancee. Wait, this infidelity is supposed to be okay, because the fiancee is a sadistic sociopath who maliciously injures every man and joyfully fucks every women he sees. Rounding out the list of wonderfully pleasant characters are a cursing granny, a psychotic redhead who molests Vaughn, and a gay 'artist' who only wants to molest Vaughn. Ho ho.

Wedding Crashers is bad beyond belief. Startlingly unfunny with the moral compass of a horny 16 year old football player, all involved should be ashamed, including the audience that made it a financial success. At a time where those on the right and the left claim our culture is spiraling into Hell, Wedding Crashers is a painful reminder of the divide between smart people and stupid people of all nationalities, races, or creeds.

0 out of 5

99

I am going to coin a phrase, or several of them.

To my male readers, ie all of them: Have you ever looked at a woman and thought to yourself that she is cute or beautiful or pretty or whatever, but felt no desire for her on that base level? Like you think she may be good looking, but it's the kind of good looking that is best for someone else?

From now on, if you see a girl like that, call her 'Someone else's cute' or 'Someone else's beautiful' or whatever adjective you like. For me, it describes every other Iowan woman I see.

In a sort of related note, I used to once tell girls I met at random places that I coined the phrase 'coin the phrase'. This was followed big a nonsense story explaining how.