Wings glisten in her homespun sleeping bag of spit and leaf.
Metamorphosis has forgiven past-life crawlings.
Now she builds a second shadow,
her spirit already flying in the meadows.
Weightless, it kneels on hyacinth,
dreams of fashions for her maiden flight.
Shall she appear as a blemish-free bride
or choose the veil of the widow?
Or will she emerge, premiere danseuse,
in regal alae to trace an allemande
to the whistles of Bob Lincoln?
But how can a chrysalis on a flight of fancy
intuit the wind, the blood in the chalice,
or the sharp beak of the finch?
Sunswept through summer, she is
sacred among ephemera.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Thursday, December 26, 2013
A load of bushido bull
In our day of list-mania, one might be able to enumerate 47
reasons why not to watch Keanu Reeves in “47 Ronin.” But that would be
pointless.
Suffice it to say that “47 Ronin,” by first-time director Carl Rinsch, is a puerile mash-up of samurai sword & sorcery pulp. The movie is "based on a true story" -- an early 18th century event involving revenge taken by a group of samurai. But the film has the sensibility of a first-person shooter videogame.
 |
| Morgan Benoit is Keanu's stunt double in "47 Ronin." |
And why not? More than 650 persons are credited under visual effects, including previsualization supervisors and postvis artists, data wranglers, shader writers, a mistika artist, Houdini artist and lead paint artist (read: “leed”).
And that doesn’t include another 30 or so credited for the
special effects. Cinematography is by John Mathieson.
The sword slashing here is fun, with filmmakers appealing to adolescent boys and perhaps to those young Katnisses out there, and no doubt as well to many American men, a demographic once referred to as “failed boys” by author John Updike.
Unfortunately, the swordplay here ends on a historical note rarely seen outside of Jonestown. In this day of everything from suicide bombers to flash mobs, do we really want to define honor by old school, bushido bullshit? The gratuitous infatuation with mass ritual suicide, depicted fetishistically in this film, is offensive. Even failed boys deserve better.
Instead, check out “Ronin” (1998), a tough guy caper from director John Frankenheimer, in which Bobby Deniro, Jean Reno and others cut a bloody and exciting swath through southern France and the Eternal City.
 |
| My kind of ronin. |
Monday, August 12, 2013
Escape from "Elysium"
There aren’t many laughs in “Elysium,” a sci-fi thriller with an activist conceit that takes itself too seriously to allow its protagonists the Hollywoodian luxury of zinging a nemesis.
Writer/director Neill Blomkamp envisions a 22nd century world where the Earth has become the wrong side of the tracks and where the rich have moved into the ultimate gated community – in orbit.
Matt Damon’s character Max, a paroled car thief, is living in the squalor of a Los Angeles slum where android cops stop and frisk. Max reconnects with childhood friend Frey from their days in foster care, a girl we are supposed to believe Max has been pining for ever since. When Frey tends to a wounded Max, she discovers he has a tattoo replicating a rudimentary drawing she once made on young Max when they were six or seven and which meant “Max and Frey forever.” Blomkamp reprises the earlier scene in what amounts to a brief, yet annoying, example of cinematic overkill. Hey, Blomkamp: We remember. We get it. No need to insult our intelligence.
There is plenty of action in “Elysium,” and even a few scenes guaranteed to make moviegoers misty. Such is the sentimental shlock served up in the guise of science fiction: Max, the car thief with a heart of gold, still true to a childhood crush.
Not only was the filmmaker unsure of the average moviegoer’s acumen, he apparently could not decide how to make an original piece of cinema. Instead “Elysium” resembles a cinema scavenger hunt, cobbling together “Robocop,” “Terminator,” “Iron Man” and even “Escape from L. A.”. By attempting to ape those franchises “Elysium” hamstrings its own screenplay and guts its flawed forays into social commentary.
A buff and blonde Jodie Foster plays the heavy while Faran Tahir, an actor of Pakistani ancestry, embodies the ineffective voice of reason. But Foster is boring in her role here. Ditto Damon. The scene-stealers are Sharlto Copley, a sociopathic CIA agent, and Wagner Moura, a coyote whose operation shuttles nonresidents up to the orbiting habitat. Diego Luna gives a palpable and rich performance in a minor role.
The lingua franca of 22nd century Los Angeles is pretty much español and many of the early scenes feature this language exclusively. While that certainly also has its mercantile considerations, it remains an insightful touch and likely the most plausible aspect of the L.A. depicted in “Elysium.”
Writer/director Neill Blomkamp envisions a 22nd century world where the Earth has become the wrong side of the tracks and where the rich have moved into the ultimate gated community – in orbit.
Matt Damon’s character Max, a paroled car thief, is living in the squalor of a Los Angeles slum where android cops stop and frisk. Max reconnects with childhood friend Frey from their days in foster care, a girl we are supposed to believe Max has been pining for ever since. When Frey tends to a wounded Max, she discovers he has a tattoo replicating a rudimentary drawing she once made on young Max when they were six or seven and which meant “Max and Frey forever.” Blomkamp reprises the earlier scene in what amounts to a brief, yet annoying, example of cinematic overkill. Hey, Blomkamp: We remember. We get it. No need to insult our intelligence.
There is plenty of action in “Elysium,” and even a few scenes guaranteed to make moviegoers misty. Such is the sentimental shlock served up in the guise of science fiction: Max, the car thief with a heart of gold, still true to a childhood crush.
Not only was the filmmaker unsure of the average moviegoer’s acumen, he apparently could not decide how to make an original piece of cinema. Instead “Elysium” resembles a cinema scavenger hunt, cobbling together “Robocop,” “Terminator,” “Iron Man” and even “Escape from L. A.”. By attempting to ape those franchises “Elysium” hamstrings its own screenplay and guts its flawed forays into social commentary.
A buff and blonde Jodie Foster plays the heavy while Faran Tahir, an actor of Pakistani ancestry, embodies the ineffective voice of reason. But Foster is boring in her role here. Ditto Damon. The scene-stealers are Sharlto Copley, a sociopathic CIA agent, and Wagner Moura, a coyote whose operation shuttles nonresidents up to the orbiting habitat. Diego Luna gives a palpable and rich performance in a minor role.
The lingua franca of 22nd century Los Angeles is pretty much español and many of the early scenes feature this language exclusively. While that certainly also has its mercantile considerations, it remains an insightful touch and likely the most plausible aspect of the L.A. depicted in “Elysium.”
Sunday, August 4, 2013
"2 Guns" loots little known 1970s classic
For pure cinematic entertainment of the action variety you cannot go wrong with “2 Guns.”
In this latest iteration of the buddy flick, Denzel Washington, as an undercover DEA agent, and Mark Wahlberg, as a naval intelligence operative, team up – reluctantly, as the trope demands – against a motley crew of corrupt or compromised government types and a Mexican drug lord with an angus avocation. It is a caper that morphs from a south of the border sting to a heist in Tres Cruces, New Mexico, to a hostage swap and finally to a dos mas Mexican standoff.
Along the way, Bill Paxton reinvents his on-screen persona in the role of a ruthless enforcer tracking stolen millions. Paxton’s loquacious sociopath is played with an unhurried relentlessness. The veteran actor’s gentle drawl uncannily heightens the cold-bloodedness of each spoken threat.
Although Washington mostly mails it in – only occasionally flashing the visceral sincerity that marked his outstanding performances in “Flight” and ‘Training Day,” the actor’s effortless cool is always front and center. Wahlberg on the other hand absolutely delivers in a role tailor-made for his familiar brand of Everyman action hero shtick. Both actors benefit greatly from the hip and quirky dialog in Blake Masters’ screenplay, based on the Boom! Studios graphic novels by Steven Grant, according to IMDb.com.
Director Baltasar Kormakur has created a well-paced film. The cinematography by Oliver Wood presents a visual feast. There are details like a single spent brass casing, which subtly heightens suspense as it foreshadows the impending harsh interrogation technique preferred by the enforcer. There are sweeping panoramas like the aerial shot of the footprints illegals make in the virgin sand of the Mexican wasteland, an alea iacta est image that emphasizes life-and-death choices while reflecting on one of the largest political and social issues of the day. It is one of a handful of scenes in this picture where the Icelandic director dares to overlay the more cartoonish aspects of Hollywoodian action with a serious message. The most obvious scene is when Washington's wounded DEA agent gets the drop on a pair of borderland vigilantes, identifying himself with a gun for effect and, for irony, a greeting in Arabic.
Kormakur once claimed he would never sell out to Hollywood by making movies he is not proud of. Having certainly mastered the art of balancing pretty images of orange-flamed explosions with his characters’ snappy braggadocio, Kormakur can be proud of “2 Guns.” He has made a darn good flick, even if the director failed to elicit much of anything new from Denzel.
Who really deserves the writing credit?
However, this is not the first film in which a bank in Tres Cruces, New Mexico, was robbed. The plot of "Charlie Varrick" (1973), directed by legend Don Siegel, is set in motion by just such a heist. Interestingly, there are further similarities that go beyond homage.
In "Charlie Varrick" the robbers also make a much bigger haul than they expected and are subsequently pursued by a mob enforcer with pronounced sadistic traits. "2 Guns" even reprises a scene from the movie released 40 years ago, in which the hapless bank manager weeps as he is "advised" that those whose money has been stolen are unlikely to believe in his innocence.
"Charlie Varrick" is based on the John Reese novel "The Looters." How ironic "2 Guns" borrows from a film based on a book by that title. It may be hard to be proud of it after all.
In this latest iteration of the buddy flick, Denzel Washington, as an undercover DEA agent, and Mark Wahlberg, as a naval intelligence operative, team up – reluctantly, as the trope demands – against a motley crew of corrupt or compromised government types and a Mexican drug lord with an angus avocation. It is a caper that morphs from a south of the border sting to a heist in Tres Cruces, New Mexico, to a hostage swap and finally to a dos mas Mexican standoff.
Although Washington mostly mails it in – only occasionally flashing the visceral sincerity that marked his outstanding performances in “Flight” and ‘Training Day,” the actor’s effortless cool is always front and center. Wahlberg on the other hand absolutely delivers in a role tailor-made for his familiar brand of Everyman action hero shtick. Both actors benefit greatly from the hip and quirky dialog in Blake Masters’ screenplay, based on the Boom! Studios graphic novels by Steven Grant, according to IMDb.com.
Director Baltasar Kormakur has created a well-paced film. The cinematography by Oliver Wood presents a visual feast. There are details like a single spent brass casing, which subtly heightens suspense as it foreshadows the impending harsh interrogation technique preferred by the enforcer. There are sweeping panoramas like the aerial shot of the footprints illegals make in the virgin sand of the Mexican wasteland, an alea iacta est image that emphasizes life-and-death choices while reflecting on one of the largest political and social issues of the day. It is one of a handful of scenes in this picture where the Icelandic director dares to overlay the more cartoonish aspects of Hollywoodian action with a serious message. The most obvious scene is when Washington's wounded DEA agent gets the drop on a pair of borderland vigilantes, identifying himself with a gun for effect and, for irony, a greeting in Arabic.
Kormakur once claimed he would never sell out to Hollywood by making movies he is not proud of. Having certainly mastered the art of balancing pretty images of orange-flamed explosions with his characters’ snappy braggadocio, Kormakur can be proud of “2 Guns.” He has made a darn good flick, even if the director failed to elicit much of anything new from Denzel.
However, this is not the first film in which a bank in Tres Cruces, New Mexico, was robbed. The plot of "Charlie Varrick" (1973), directed by legend Don Siegel, is set in motion by just such a heist. Interestingly, there are further similarities that go beyond homage.
In "Charlie Varrick" the robbers also make a much bigger haul than they expected and are subsequently pursued by a mob enforcer with pronounced sadistic traits. "2 Guns" even reprises a scene from the movie released 40 years ago, in which the hapless bank manager weeps as he is "advised" that those whose money has been stolen are unlikely to believe in his innocence.
"Charlie Varrick" is based on the John Reese novel "The Looters." How ironic "2 Guns" borrows from a film based on a book by that title. It may be hard to be proud of it after all.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Flash Novel Reject
The following is my entry to Toledo City Paper's socalled Flash Novel contest – a novel in three sentences. It was not selected as a winner. Perhaps it is too long for a three-sentence "novel." Maybe the subject matter was considered not compelling enough (another contest criterion). Or, as my wounded ego is telling me, maybe those judges just don't know from good writing...
The End of the Affair
In the middle of their lovemaking he laughed out loud.
Such a spontaneous outburst of bliss – for that was precisely what it was – had never happened to him during sex before, not that he was all that experienced in bed let alone here on her living room floor for that matter, and it startled him so thoroughly that he was temporarily unable to proceed.
She, too, was surprised, and being much more experienced than he – her BFF chalked up her promiscuity to low self-esteem – felt not at all pleased at such unheard-of mirth on her throw rug and became instantly defensive and angry that her man would mock her (WTF) at the moment she was approaching ecstasy and instantly she knew she needed to flee his sweaty torso, although to where she did not know, since how could you run away from what had just happened, and that inability to imagine a refuge paralyzed her for a moment in which she watched her lover’s beatific countenance morph into a mask of anguish and despair as he recognized her misinterpretation of his innocent albeit ill-timed laugh and correctly sensed that she would never again trust him, nevermore be his to love.
You can check TCP's actual winners right here and decide for yourself if my fiction fragment has comparable merit.
The End of the Affair
In the middle of their lovemaking he laughed out loud.
Such a spontaneous outburst of bliss – for that was precisely what it was – had never happened to him during sex before, not that he was all that experienced in bed let alone here on her living room floor for that matter, and it startled him so thoroughly that he was temporarily unable to proceed.
She, too, was surprised, and being much more experienced than he – her BFF chalked up her promiscuity to low self-esteem – felt not at all pleased at such unheard-of mirth on her throw rug and became instantly defensive and angry that her man would mock her (WTF) at the moment she was approaching ecstasy and instantly she knew she needed to flee his sweaty torso, although to where she did not know, since how could you run away from what had just happened, and that inability to imagine a refuge paralyzed her for a moment in which she watched her lover’s beatific countenance morph into a mask of anguish and despair as he recognized her misinterpretation of his innocent albeit ill-timed laugh and correctly sensed that she would never again trust him, nevermore be his to love.
You can check TCP's actual winners right here and decide for yourself if my fiction fragment has comparable merit.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
leery of the loudmouth
“I had my leeriance about it,” the big dude told the three lapdogs gathered around him at the bar like he was some rockstar messiah. Listening in absentmindedly up until that point from his stool halfway down the bar, Jaffy figured the big dude meant he was leery about some particular thing. It was an appalling abuse of the standard idiom. Who makes up such a thing? Where does the verbal confusion come from that yields such a phrase? And more to the point: why not just say you were leery?
Although leery was a queer word, Jaffy had to give the big guy that much. One of those words you might not be 100 percent about its meaning. And you never wanted to say you were something if you weren’t sure what that something was. Still the blowhard in question didn't appear to warrant the benefit of the doubt.
Jaffy just couldn't see this local Mr. Popular going through at some level a similar thought process while holding court and slamming Jaegermeister shots with his coterie. Still, "never underestimate the human brain," thought Jaffy, who immediately amended that idea to “never doubt the power of the subconscious,” for Jaffy wasn’t prepared to give the joker credit for using his brain in any way other than a strictly reptilian fashion.
Although leery was a queer word, Jaffy had to give the big guy that much. One of those words you might not be 100 percent about its meaning. And you never wanted to say you were something if you weren’t sure what that something was. Still the blowhard in question didn't appear to warrant the benefit of the doubt.
Jaffy just couldn't see this local Mr. Popular going through at some level a similar thought process while holding court and slamming Jaegermeister shots with his coterie. Still, "never underestimate the human brain," thought Jaffy, who immediately amended that idea to “never doubt the power of the subconscious,” for Jaffy wasn’t prepared to give the joker credit for using his brain in any way other than a strictly reptilian fashion.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Moustaki lives!
Avec ma gueule de métèque
De Juif errant, de pâtre grec
De voleur et de vagabond
Pop singer Georges Moustaki appeared a gentle soul despite the unruly hair and beard. It was in his eyes, wide and expressive, that you recognized the encompassing empathy of the immigrant.
I was introduced to his haunting anthems as a young man living in France in the 1970s. Moustaki was one of many singers we adored, whose music we yearned for. Unlike most other popular singers of the time, Moustaki came from a culture foreign to France. Yet he had learned the tongue and the culture and become a creative force in his adopted land. I admired Moustaki for the way his own path celebrated individuality. He was a living muse.
Moustaki was exceptional in another way. The hairy performer with the coaxing, guttural voice was universally adored by all the girls I knew. Perhaps Moustaki’s charm resided in the elusive character of his persona: French but not French, an indigenous outsider of sorts. Dressed invariably in white, he seemed to embody a Christ-like love. He sang of liberty and acceptance. His message was tolerance and he expressed an irreverent embrace of the rhythms of life.
Recalling his music, his songs on this, the day Georges Moustaki died, I am glad for having been touched by the poignant spell of their valiant idealism.
Et nous ferons de chaque jour
Toute une éternité d'amour
Que nous vivrons à en mourir
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Cinema 2013: Curse delayed, not well played
“Lords of Salem” by cult auteur Rob Zombie initially holds promise for the serious moviegoer with some fine visuals and expressionist cinematography only to devolve into nondescript set pieces and hackneyed horror tropes. If “Lords” were a plane its engines would sputter loudly but it would not fly.
The premise of the film is workable: a Salem witch slain in the 1600s is exacting payback on her tormentor’s modern-day descendant, the oddly goth radio personality Heidi Hawthorne (Sheri Moon Zombie, the director’s wife). That dead witch must have really believed revenge is a dish best served cold.
But the film’s exposition stalls when the seeds of impending horror fail to sprout. The slice-of-life scenes with Heidi and crew are enjoyable and strike a spot-on tone but never amount to much. Meanwhile the scary ain’t scary. And while the gory is plenty gory, it entails a frenzy that director Zombie fails to make contagious.
Not only are the low-budget production values here devoid of charm, where is the modern world of the radio audience our protagonists owe their day jobs to? It is nowhere in evidence in this film. Instead, Zombie’s modern-day Salem seems stuck in some 400-year-old warp, resistant to the pace, accoutrements and increased population density of the 21st century. Director Zombie would have been well served by hiring a small army of extras. Not only could he then have turned the Lords’ sparsely attended free concert into an epic gig, he could have populated the deserted streets, barren cityscapes and Heidi’s empty apartment building, all of which taken together build a disconnected vibe throughout the film.
Still, the concert scenes deliver a palpable dissonance and succeed in conveying an acute sense of doom that is perhaps the most poignant takeaway of this flick.
Finally, the movie takes its R rating no doubt from an aggregate of female nudity as well as one particular scene depicting a wannabe kinky sex ritual which, although brief, is actually quite surprising for inclusion in a wide release film.
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