The Week In Movies (7/09/09)

Adventureland

Dir. Greg Mottola

Marketing was heavy on the fact that this is from the director of Superbad. Anybody going to see that kind of movie will be disappointed. This isn't much of a comedy, but a coming of age story sprinkled with amusing moments and a unexpected dark outlook on all things life. Jessie Eisenberg might be a poor man's Michael Cera, but he pulls off this role, as a graduated teen who takes work at the local theme park (Can you guess the name?) to fund his future, rather nicely. Modest and a little underwhelming, you can't help wondering if there was an opportunity wasted somewhere around here. Still, for the most part this works fine. Even if it is only set in 1987 so the director had an excuse to compile a worthy soundtrack. (***)

(500) Days of Summer

Dir. Marc Webb

A relentlessly watchable outing from new director Marc Webb, this is one of the best romantic comedies of the last decade. Joseph Gordon-Levitt is Tom. He falls in love with Zooey Deschanel (the title's Summer), but she doesn't feel quite so strongly. We're warned this isn't a traditional romantic comedy from the very beginning. Good. We've had enough of those. Tom's plight is one heck of an emotional journey that we can all relate to. We take a whirl through a number of the fated 500 days that Tom knew Summer, for good or for worse, each told with the help of some brilliantly employed narrative gems, including a hilarious musical number and dozens of well-placed pop cultural nods. The performances are wonderful. Men will fall in love with Summer. Girls will want to know where they can find their own Tom. But the point is that we're all human, and that nobody's perfect. Don't miss it. (****)

The Hurt Locker

Dir. Katherine Bigelow

Talk about tense. Katherine Bigelow returns with a movie set in Iraq about the bomb squads who balance on the bridge between life and death disarming the things. No politics here, just excellent performances and nail-biting tension told with style. It's the psychological aspect that Bigelow is most interested in, and we're thrust into the action from the go. Specifically, we join James, a rebel with Mel Gibson/Lethal Weapon syndrome who has no regard for his safety within the field. Guy Pearce and Rhys Fiennes turn up, too. Either to show us that just about everyone is disposable, or to draw in audiences looking for big names. I hope it's for the first reason. (****)

Funny People

Dir. Judd Apatow

This offbeat "comedy" from popular laugh-guru Judd Apatow (Knocked Up, The 40-Year-Old Virgin) might miss the mark for most. Not that it's by any means a bad movie, it's just not very funny. Adam Sandler plays a washed-up movie star with a string of bad movies behind him and worse news to come. He has a rare form of cancer, and not long to live. Seth Rogen, in his usual persona, is at Sandler's side, and the two struggle to find meaning in their lives as stand-up comedians. This is Judd Apatow with Woody Allen in mind. There's some good stuff here, but it might be half an hour too long. Did I mention it's not very funny? (***)

District 9

Dir. Neill Blomkamp

South African science-fiction that blows recent Hollywood blockbusters out of the water (Yes, Transformers 2, I mean you). Inspired by short film Alive in Joberg, Neill Blomkamp's alien refugee extravaganza is the best sci-fi film of the year. Heck, it's the best action-thriller of the year full-stop. Funny, exciting and awfully violent, this is the way blockbusters should be put together - with care and affection and affinity for the subject matter. First-time actor Sharlto Copley is phenomenal as alien welfare agent Wikus Van de Mewre, who finds himself caught up in an extraterritrial eviction that goes horribly wrong. Peter Jackson produces. (****)

Film Review: Inglourious Basterds (2009)

Sgt. Donny Donowitz (Eli Roth) and Lt. Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt) in Quentin Tarantino's "Inglourious Basterds"

When Death Proof said farewell to its Grindhouse packaging and hit UK screens solo, a whole bunch of QT fans left the cinema feeling disappointed. The census: the world’s coolest director had lost it. He’d overindulged. Taken it too far this time. Nobody got what the heck he was talking about. But it might’ve been unfair that his car crash slasher was forcibly screened out of context – it had been created as one half of Grindhouse, a homage to those poorly-made, exploitation double-features that littered American screens throughout the 70s and 80s. Due to the box office failure of this project in the States (of which Sin City’s Robert Rodriguez directed one half), the UK received only Death Proof as a sort of punishment.

That it is his worst film is clear, but it’s definitely not a bad one. Misjudged, misguided and misunderstood are words that all spring to mind. That, and it was easy for a lot of people to miss the point. A handful of the dodgy exploitation touches were taken out, and it was presented in a way that avoided the marketing and presentation that it required. Tarantino’s next project, then, had to bring him back on form. It’s (misspelled) title? Inglourious Basterds.

A self-described western disguised as a war film, Inglourious Basterds takes setting in 1941 during a very Nazi-Occupied France. Brad Pitt is Lt. Aldo Raine, a hillbilly roughneck who enlists a group of Jewish-American soldiers with the intention of getting medieval on the Nazis. And they’re no ordinary unit: they hunt with Apache forcibility, scalping the heads of their enemies, leaving blood and destruction wherever they tred. And they’re soon to become something of legend amongst their enemies. One particular member, Sgt. Donowitz (Eli Roth), has been nicknamed “The Bear Jew” – he’s particularly renound for his trademark weapon, a baseball bat, which he brutally batters uncompromising Nazis to death with. All of this is done with no regard in hiding the violence.

Meanwhile, our parallel storyline – yes, you guessed it - sees Shosanna Dreyfuss (Mélanie Laurent), a young Jewish girl, escaping the clutches of sardonic Nazi Colonel Hans Landa (the exceptional Christopher Waltz), who has earned his own nickname – “The Jew Hunter” – from his remarkably honed skills in finding those who have gone into hiding. He orders the massacre of her family, but she escapes, and takes refuge in France as the proprietor of a movie house. That these stories will come together we are sure, but just how exactly is left until over halfway through.

But, actually, the storyline isn’t very complex: it’s all about the style, the dialogue and the characters (and of course, how many obscure movie references Tarantino can get in amongst the two and a half hour running time). The performances are knockout. The whole thing looks fantastic. The attention to detail is that of a seasoned professional. And to compare it to any of his other works, it’s most like Kill Bill (Tarantino himself says Pulp Fiction, but I can’t agree). Go in expecting that kind of film, and you’re going to have a blast.

We already know of Tarantino’s love affair with moving pictures. His passion for the cinema reaches so far that he pays respect to it at practically every moment. And it is respect. Here’s a man who is so immersed in movies that he cannot help but project his loves for everyone to see. We open with music from The Alamo over the credits (the beautiful “The Green Leaves of Summer”), hear snippets from a whole bunch of Ennio Morricone-scored films throughout, are treated with Samuel L. Jackson as our narrator, and a whole host of Kill Bill-esque flashbacks to give us lively explanations to his distinctive characters. Tarantino is right: It’s a western disguised as a WW2 flick. Take a look at the name of the first chapter for the proof: “Once Upon A Time… In Nazi-Occupied France.” A sure-fire nod to Tarantino’s man Sergio Leone.

What else? It’s funny. Tarantino’s sense of humour has always shined through, but here, given the context, it seems to work best. The violence, like always, is played for laughs, but the whole film rests on a tone that somehow transcends what it ought to be: you feel sad when you should feel sad, you laugh when you should laugh, you’re shocked when you should be shocked. Considering that it sounds so unbelievably haphazard, it’s surprising just how well it all comes together.

What we get a result of all this is a hugely imaginative affair, an ode to popular culture, to the cinema, and to Tarantino himself. Some moments are bordering the self-indulgent, but it’s always in the name of fun. If the dictionary were looking to replace their definition of “entertaining”, then I would happily suggest two words for the new explanation: “Inglourious Basterds.”

Then again, this might not work for some people at all. I understand. War? Nazis? Some people can barely take Tarantino as it is. All those lengthy speeches, the references to movies nobody has ever heard of, the no-holds take on violence, the treatment of an era that in many people’s opinion demands only respect. 

But there’s no message here. There’s no side taking. It’s just a playground for Tarantino to do with what he likes. It didn’t have to be Nazis, it just happens that it is. It gives him even more to play with. You can just see Tarantino in his glory writing this thing, making up the nicknames (“Aldo the Apache”), the backstories (one of the Basterds is a ex-Gestapo agent who murdered 13 fellow officers), and imaging the musical cues, reminiscent of moments from his favourite films. Really, like Kill Bill, it’s a movie geek’s wet dream.

What Tarantino has done here is completely typical of his style, yet it reeks of something else, something, dare I say, more adult. Of course, that comment may be ill judged, and I might have found myself tricked by the context and the abundance of historical iconography. That Pulp Fiction will probably remain his best-loved film for a long time is true. Still, something inside tells me that in thirty years, it’ll be Inglourious Basterds that film scholars look back on to see what was going on inside Tarantino’s head. “This might just be my masterpiece,” stands as the final line in the film. That this is the director addressing whoever wants to listen, I’m sure of. That he might be right? Hm. Ask me in thirty years. (*****)