My dog barks some. Mentally, you picture my dog.

WILD AT HEART (1990)

I’d be lying if I said David Lynch wasn’t an intimidating filmmaker. His films are, for the most part, some of the hardest to decipher, yet his execution is brilliant. A man of few words, Lynch is an advocate of “show, not tell” and relies heavily on eerie visuals to relay his messages. He’s an idealist who exudes creative spirit, so much in fact that his ingenuity is often buried underneath an array of mismatched puzzle pieces and lost to the bromidic eye. In Wild at Heart, visions of violence and malevolence entangle a seemingly sweet love story fueled by dreams of Emerald City. A fan of the 1939 classic, Lynch ensures that his Wizard of Oz references are impossible to miss, but I saw them as little red herrings scattered throughout, fooling the audience into regarding the film as anything but an indirect representation of man’s savage nature.

From what I hear, Barry Gifford’s neo-noir pulp novel "Wild at Heart: The Story of Sailor and Lula" is quite different from Lynch’s adaptation, and – while not having read the book myself – I wouldn’t doubt it. The film may be considered Lynch’s easiest to understand (it is, for the most part) but the Lynchian oddities are abundant and I’m sure the book could never dream of conceiving such bizarre kinks. Lula (Laura Dern) and Sailor (Nicolas Cage) are pseudo-reincarnations of Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley respectively. They’re both jaded internally due to negligent upbringings, but sex-crazed externally. The opening scene threw me initially because I walked in with little background and was pretty stunned by Cage’s brutality. This opening number is just a taste of Lynch’s macabre world. What we have here is a world where jealous mothers send assailants to execute their daughters’ lovers, and this happens to be the case for Lula and Sailor. Diane Ladd plays Lula’s vindictive mother Miss Fortune – appropriate – and she’s the film’s brazen Wicked Witch prototype. The goons she enlists to slay Sailor can be seen as her “flying monkeys”; sentimental Farragut (Harry Dean Stanton) and sinister Santos (J.E. Freeman), both out to win Ladd’s heart by disposing of the Elvis impersonator. As the film progresses, Lynch tosses a slew of unforgettable oddballs our way and polishes the story off with a shopworn happy ending.

Lynch builds Wild at Heart around this Wizard of Oz idealism – pretty blatantly – and when I think of Oz I think of a spiritual journey toward "illusory splendor". Similar to Dorothy’s journey along the yellow break road, Lula and Sailor are destined to seek fulfillment; despite facing many obstacles along the way and – after reaching their destination – realizing that perhaps their dreams were ill-considered. Lynch’s decision to sculpt Wild after Oz is intriguing, if not a bit off-kilter, but I would have opted for less obvious nods to Fleming’s classic.

I called Lynch’s Oz references red herrings earlier, and this may be an unfounded opinion, but they really come across that way. After sifting through the Oz bologna, I noticed the uncanny similarities Wild shares with Godard’s Week-End. Lynch is as overtly picaresque as Godard in depicting society's callous response toward the human condition. In one scene, Lula displays her disinterest in reality by irritably flipping past chilling death reports in search of rock n’ roll tunes on the radio to lull back into her contrived fantasy. Other scenes show characters on the verge of death at relative disregard, worrying more about hairbrushes and purses (a la "my Hermes handbag!") and reminiscing past mishaps of similar aftermath. And how could you miss Lynch’s gesture during the final act’s traffic jam scene? Week-End’s more political, but you can’t deny that the two films share illustrations that suggest a frighteningly indifferent world.

On the upside, I admire Lynch’s singular approach in elucidating another creator's work; he’s better at penning his own ideas, but he makes a good effort here. The Oz bits, while inspired, are a tad excessive, and I wish Lynch would have taken advantage of his trademark obscurity to mitigate the allusions. Overall, Wild at Heart is an amusing satire – of sorts – on love, road trips and dynamic duos harking back to Penn’s Bonnie and Clyde and perhaps inspiring Tarantino’s Natural Born Killers.

7.5/10

Is he a martyr or is he a Jalfrezi?

FOUR LIONS (2010)

Amid the heated controversy surrounding the recent opposition to Park51 – or the “ground zero mosque” – a number of PSAs, news columns and reports have spawned quite notably throughout the media. Amongst these was a piece on NPR’s All Things Considered that touched on the growth of anti-Muslim sentiment and the deterioration of Muslim/non-Muslim relations in America. The saddest part of the special was not learning how widespread anti-Muslim sentiment has escalated across the country, but hearing Muslims testify to the most absurd misconceptions they encounter every day, and how Muslims and their creed have been misconceived since the days of the Puritans. So when I stumbled upon satirist Chris Morris’ latest farce Four Lions, I was both skeptical and intrigued in seeing how he portrayed a scatterbrained group of radical Muslims living in London. Needless to say, while a bit heart-rending, Morris’ satire does not disappoint.

The film’s title derives from The Lion King, as implied when Omar – a British jihadist, and our hero – ad-libs his own rendition of the Disney classic to his son. He uses Simba as an archetype for glory and dreams of one day realizing his own ambition of martyrdom. Determined to have his name echo through history, Omar seeks to be radicalized and then upgraded to a suicide bomber via training camp. Of course to achieve such an abstract goal he forms a crack team of fellow Muslims; including the blond-bearded, blue-eyed convert Barry (Nigel Lindsay). Idiocy ensues as the group’s conflicting ideologies ultimately foil their terrorist plot.

Although Four Lions makes light of an arguably taboo subject, Morris’ intention for doing so is pretty darn amicable. He’s taken a hot topic that has consumed a vast amount of media attention – and our lives – and deconstructed it in a way that questions our perceptions of the Islamic faith. Morris is essentially having a good-humored laugh at global ignorance. The tables are turned and we’re shown the underside of this "nebulous, hostile Arab world" that society has artlessly sketched out for us. We’re shown humans, not suicide bombers. We’re shown families, not radical groups. We’re shown that alien ideologies are of no greater threat than our own and that the real danger lies in misunderstanding.

8.5/10

Heaven isn't always found some place high up

HIGH AND LOW (1963)

So I have this little habit of titling my reviews with quotes corresponding with the films I discuss, however this particular quote – which was initially to be used in the finale of Akira Kurosawa’s High and Low – didn’t make the final cut. Kurosawa instead condenses the climax down to its crudest form, heightens our anticipation, then cuts away right at the scene's boiling point; leaving us utterly spellbound. I may have to consider shuffling around some films in my all-time-top-ten to make room for this monumental masterpiece, because what Kurosawa delivers here is filmmaking handled with the utmost care, paying meticulous attention to every detail.

On the Criterion DVD commentary, it's mentioned that Kurosawa placed great emphasis on the mechanics of filmmaking – editing, lighting, etc. – and acknowledged how these aspects can either make or break a film. Accordingly, Kurosawa treats High and Low like a science, opening the film with theatrically shot long-takes that create a concentrated energy amongst his characters. Similar to Nichols’ Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf or Hitchcock’s Rope, High and Low unfolds like a chamber drama examining the business-oriented routine of affluent capitalists, but quickly unveils itself as a thrilling analysis of Japan’s class structure.

Kingo Gondo (Toshiro Mifune) is a well-heeled – pun intended – executive on the brink of making a crucial decision regarding the buyout of National Shoes, a company specializing in women's footwear. His fellow shareholders advise him to join forces with them in an attempt to collectively overtake the company’s founder; who believes in making durable, long-lasting shoes, which the executives are against due to low profits. Gondo, employed at the company since his youth, adheres to the founder’s philosophies and declines the executives’ proposition. After showing the big-wigs the door, Gondo reveals to his wife (Kyoko Kagawa) and secretary (Tatsuya Mihashi) that he has secretly mortgaged everything he owns in order to set up a leveraged buyout to seize the company for himself. Cruel irony rears its head once his chauffeur’s son – mistaken for Gondo's son – is abducted by a kidnapper, whose initial intent was to extort Gondo. Thrown in a corner, Gondo faces a seemingly impossible predicament: pursue his buyout or sacrifice his fortune to save a chauffeur’s kid.

The narrative brilliantly shifts into the underbelly of Kanagawa and scrutinizes every clue in an effort to weed out the ruthless kidnapper. It is in this semi-slum that we discern the location of our kidnapper and his primary motive. Many would argue that Kurosawa’s title refers to heaven and hell as noted in the film’s climatic ending, however, the title's true connotation is suggested by the position of Gondo’s lavish home: dominantly above the slums below.

Ginjiro, the kidnapper – brilliantly played by Tsutomu Yamazaki – despises Gondo for his wealth and seeks to psychologically and financially weaken him, thus giving him a taste of social deprivation. What Ginjiro fails to realize is that Gondo is far from some transparent aristocrat; Gondo came from poverty and now applies the values instilled through hard labor to his work ethic. Following the kidnapping, Gondo receives an outpouring of sympathy and is duly praised for his valor and fortitude. This leads the media to proclaim that Ginjiro’s attempt at undermining Gondo’s morale was a failure, although Gondo’s accumulating debts say otherwise.

Filmed and set in the sixties, High and Low not only serves as an allegory on class struggle, but also as a testament. Like a time capsule, High and Low harks back to the social shape of Japan during the Vietnam War. We can gather simply by observing the diverse masses carousing in nightclubs that Japan was somewhat of a melting pot in the sixties. In a more honest portrayal of the times, Kurosawa touches on heroin addiction in a bleak alleyway scene. The scene is noteworthy – and my favorite – because every inch of it drips with a sense of realism. Every actor, every effect, every piece of scenery is so bold and convincing that it evokes the most unsettling vibe possible. The moans, whispers, shadows, silhouettes: all bone-chilling.

True to form, Kurosawa paints an incredibly stark portrait of contempt and sacrifice amidst dire circumstances in High and Low. As an audience, we feel compelled to piece together unearthed clues in collaboration with the detectives as they search "high and low" for this cynical madman. The entire film spans across such an adept stage of forthrightness, that Kurosawa practically submerges you into his story and forces you to retain something meaningful from it.

10/10

When she sees you, she sees death

PLEASE GIVE (2010)

Can we all agree that 2010 has been a rather crummy year for cinema? I can only name a few films that have really struck me as adequate – mostly independent features like Cairo Time, Mother and Child, Leaves of Grass – but the rest of the year is practically a wasteland. Even the hyped, highly anticipated movies – Inception, Alice, Iron Man 2, Robin Hood, etc. – seem a touch forgettable at the moment. Not all-around terrible, just forgettable. But then came Nicole Holofcener’s Please Give which, while not exclusively unique or original or even superior to the lemons I just listed, offers an often overlooked truth that makes you say, “you know, I may actually appreciate this film in a week or so.”

Catherine Keener was perhaps what initially drew me to this film, yet I found myself fully absorbed by Rebecca Hall, who’s currently gravy training off The Town. Only a supporting character, however, Hall aptly plays Rebecca, a breast cancer radiology technician whose grandmother lives in an apartment adjacent to Kate (Keener) and her husband Alex (Oliver Platt). The couple own a used furniture store specializing in modern decor purchased from the relatives of recently deceased homeowners. They also happen to own Rebecca’s grandmother’s apartment with the sole intention of expanding their living space once the cranky old beldam croaks.

Kate eventually develops a guilty conscience regarding her work, so she seeks to compensate for it by “giving back” – offering money to the homeless, volunteering, etc. This, of course, only serves to restrain her guilt, and – maybe – as a diversion from looking into a more “ethical” profession. Then there’s the “I'm immune to guilt because I contribute to society” mentality that becomes evident in Kate’s daily life, but even she begins to realize the transparency in that way of thinking.

We ultimately find her avoiding the reality of what she does for a living, and integrity plays the most integral role in this film. In essence, Please Give conveys the message of how society has become so accustomed to lying that we find it abnormal when people are explicitly honest. Kate pussyfoots around the truth with her customers, she feigns complacency amongst her family, but at the end of the day, the fact remains that Kate resells dead people’s furniture.

In conventional, feel-good fashion, the film closes with cliché ribbons and bows as Kate comes to identify with the sentimental value and worth of the items she sells for personal gain; and while this conclusion may be as kitschy as some of the furniture sold in her store, the path taken to get there is well worth the ride.

8.5/10

Now you are yourself, but not yourself

HOUR OF THE WOLF (1968)

Considering that Ingmar Bergman is better known for his agnostic dramas than he is for horror features, my interest was piqued when I discovered the Swedish director’s psychological thriller Hour of the Wolf. Not without its flair of drama and inner turmoil, we find Bergman at his most experimental, delving into expressionism reminisce of F.W. Murnau and Robert Wiene, yet retaining his patented surreal approach. One should be aware going into Hour of the Wolf that the film is anything but standard horror; Wolf is virtually devoid of the calculated “jump scenes” that contemporary horror films have taken a liking to. On the contrary, Bergman stages a painstaking study of an artist and his demons on the skirts of ominous surroundings.

According to Swedish folktales and even religious doctrines, “vargtimmen” – “the hour of the wolf” – is said to be the hour when most people die and are born, the hour between night and dawn and the hour when nightmares are most real. A nightmare in and of itself, Bergman's only true Gothic film pairs regulars Max von Sydow and Liv Ullmann as Johan and Alma Borg in two masterful performances. Johan is an insomniac painter who confides to his pregnant wife that he is being haunted by supernatural projections of past demons. These “demons” are viewed as Jungian archetypes unique to Borg, epitomizing his grueling life experiences. The plot is eventually launched into obscurity when Baron von Merkens (Erland Josephson) acquaints himself with the couple, summons them to his castle, and – climatically – reveals himself as one of Borg’s “cannibals”.

What’s so accessible about Hour of the Wolf is that it can be interpreted several ways. Customary in his body of work, Bergman’s Wolf presents a number of congruences; the baron’s phantom, for instance, is projected as a “spider-man”, which could tie in with Through a Glass Darkly where Karin’s “spider-god” denotes a cold, monstrous being. Perhaps the most powerful scene in the film is where Borg recalls a dream in which he bludgeons a young boy – who symbolizes homosexuality – to death. He also divulges repressed childhood memories, one regarding the time he was locked away in a dark closet believed to be inhabited by a small man who chewed off naughty children’s toes; this closet could represent Bergman’s own childhood torment. Eerily enough, Alma suffers from her own afflictions, later revealed to be horrors strongly pertaining to her husband.

Hour of the Wolf also represents a sort of landmark amongst Bergman’s technical achievements; I found the makeup and special effects to be quite ultramodern for the late 60s. The score, while a bit campy and maladroit, is effective in warning the audience that trouble is imminent. Arguably, Wolf can be viewed as an apologue concerning our internal demons, but judging from Alma’s apprehension – “is it true that a woman who lives a long time with a man eventually winds up being like that man?” – one could also deduce that Bergman is implying how long-term relationships can often stimulate an almost adverse melding of the minds.

8.5/10

I discover no kinship, no understanding, no mercy

GRIZZLY MAN (2005)

I’d just like to start off by saying that this review is entirely nonpartisan, and that I have no intentions of enforcing any political spin on it. I also refuse to touch on the controversy over the film’s integrity; hoax conspiracies, etc. I walked into Werner Herzog’s Grizzly Man knowing next to nothing about bear enthusiast Timothy Treadwell and came out having experienced a harrowing narrative of a deeply troubled man. The film is a success because it evokes emotion, it isn’t stale or hollow, and it holds your interest. Asinine debating aside, it’s pretty solid filmmaking. Now, admittedly, I’ve only seen about a handful of documentaries, so I remain a bit skeptical regarding Herzog’s subjective take on the events; however, his zealous commentary could simply be indicative of his respect for Treadwell, who – for what it’s worth – was truly committed to his cause.

Alaska’s Katmai National Park and Preserve is where Treadwell spent thirteen, video-documented summers observing bears and, needless to say, met an inevitable demise. Segments of Treadwell’s last five summers were extracted from and covered in Herzog’s documentary, which examines both the logical and sentimental slants on Treadwell’s death. When it comes to understanding men as intricate as Treadwell, you have to consider the motives behind their behavior. Treadwell was a zany character through and through, and those familiar with him prior to his budding fame were aware of this, but they were also aware of his fervid relationship with the environment.

We should also acknowledge Treadwell’s background and upbringing, as he was raised in a fairly animal-centric home and even held a close bond with a stuffed bear that he cherished well into adulthood. He was a man who literally wanted to “mutate” into a wild animal and live amongst the bears he observed so passionately. His technique was quite intense, jarring even, but his admirers characterized him as a man who had only the best intentions, if not a bit misguided at times.

Then there were Treadwell’s critics, ranging from those of commonsense to those of unfounded criticisms. Herzog interviews several bear experts, a couple who were under the impression that Treadwell had a death wish and foolishly crossed the boundaries of nature. Herzog implies in the film that “bear world” is a harsh world, one that we as humans can never be a part of due to our vast differences. Of course, any sane individual would never dream of invading a bear’s territory, because those of sound mind value their life. Some skeptics believed that Treadwell was actually dangerous, doing more harm than good by attempting to habituate bears; which only leads the bears to believe that all humans are safe, which of course, isn't the case. Treadwell’s harsher critics, ignorant of the facts, were only able to define him as a man breaking the norms of society, thus opting to file him under “liberal wackos”.

The moment we assume the abyss housing Treadwell’s kinks and quirks has been filled, we begin to spot several cracks leaking with more questionable evidence concerning the "gentle warrior's" motives. Alcoholism and drug-addiction riddled Treadwell’s life at an early age, and even halted his academic pursuits. He was also interested in celebrity as a youth; he auditioned for Love Connection and Cheers, the latter in which he auditioned for the "bartender role" and was second only to a Mr. Woody Harrelson. He even created an alter-ego – an Australian orphan – to further his career. As our suspicions mount, we discover that Treadwell was planning to edit his documented footage into a television show and catapult himself to stardom. So, with this information, Treadwell’s true intentions become a bit obscure, but if anything’s certain, the man had impenetrable resolve.

I mentioned earlier that Herzog’s opinionated narrative was a bit off-putting, but he makes several valid points. When Herzog comments on his inability to see anything other than hunger and indifference on these animals’ faces, rather than kinship and understanding, I had to submissively concur. Harmony is wishful thinking in this world, and Grizzly Man brings us to the haunting realization that "the common character of the universe is not harmony, but chaos."

8/10

People never really talk in films

TWO OR THREE THINGS I KNOW ABOUT HER (1967)

Another social commentary, this time from Godard – not nearly as introspective or personal as Faces – set in Paris during the midst of Vietnam. The film is essentially an in-depth analysis of the war’s consequential effects on society, specifically the plight of women in the job market. We follow an unrealistically indifferent housewife as she mopes around town, turns the occasional trick to earn a quick buck and contemplates the subjectivity of language and communication; which is all mind-gratingly dull. Funny thing is, I really admire Godard, but I’m beginning to detest his attempts at drama. From a humanistic perspective, his comedies are far more personal. His dramas, however, are usually dressed up in sermons.

Perhaps I shouldn’t consider this a drama, or even a film for that matter. It’s more akin to a textbook, without the text. Yes, Godard has a lot on his chest: he outright condemns capitalism and consumerism, metaphorically calls society the government’s whore and dreams of a communist France, but it all feels so imposed. The film has plenty to say, sure, but Godard’s poor execution undermines the overall message. Maybe 2 or 3 is the sort of film that warrants revisiting, but first impressions are lasting impressions, and this one struck me as a dud.

5.5/10