Everyone's gotta do the Shimmy Shimmy Ya.

Lost River

(2014)

(SPOILERS) If more actors than one might expect turn out to be competent directors, it’s probably because the majority of them have very conservative ambitions in the field. The ones with the virtuosity of, say, Mel Gibson are few and far between. Much more common is the unfussy, unadorned approach of a Clint or a (Sir) Dickie (albeit less prolific in output). Those who attempt overt artistic or personal statements set themselves up for a fall, which is where the latest first-timer, Ryan Gosling, comes in. Lost River has been thoroughly lambasted, and it has to be said that it isn’t very good.

But hey, at least Gosling didn’t go down the route of respectable period piece or biopic (see Russell Crowe, Angelina Jolie, etc.) Lost River is determinedly weird, in the overt way a student filmmaker full of ideas but with little self-control is (hence the multi-hyphenate director-writer-producer). Whether he’ll be a one-time only, defeated by pillorying the way Johnny Depp was with The Brave, or even Charles Laughton, who made a classic but was defeated by its reception, remains to be seen. Lost River feels like a movie made from watching the works of other, better filmmakers (David Lynch, Nicolas Winding Refn, Terry Gilliam, all great touchstones to have) but without a sufficient clarity on what it wants to be. Other than weird.

Because it’s certainly that, just not in a terribly interesting way. The English guy off Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (the majority of the leads are British playing American, for no tangible reason, at least not in a “best person for the part” sense), Iain De Caestecker is Bones, who lives with mum Billy (Christina Hendricks) in a derelict part of Detroit. He salvages scrap metal, while she takes a weird stage act job from a predatory bank manager (Ben Mendelsohn, surprisingly playing a wanker, one with only the one good ear, which at least marks him out from all the other wankers he plays) in order to make the mortgage repayments to stop their house from being pulled down.

Also in the mix are Matt Smith’s imaginatively named Bully, a psychopath who terrorises the rundown locale, and Rat (Saoirise Ronan), Bones’ kind-of romantic interest who lives with her gran and owns a rat (called Nick, which makes sense, as Nick would be a silly name for a girl).

It’s a picture of two halves, the more interesting of which is the peculiar club scene Billy becomes involved in. Her first visit sees her witness a Grand Guignol performance murder to an ecstatic audience, and soon she is peeling of her face to rapturous applause (do you think this might be Gosling’s commentary on the 99% addicted to TV and the Internet, escaping their rum lots, maybe? Hmmmm?) The star performer Cat (Eva Mendes, who isn’t, but is Gosling’s paramour) introduces Billy to the basement shows, where she is sealed in a plastic body shell while a paying audience (guess who that will be) is free to behave as they will. This half-light world has the colour scheme of a Refn film and the surrealism and sexual fetishism of Lynch (think Blue Velvet) but what it lacks is any real sensibility beyond a will to odd. Lynch’s twisted sense of humour marbles his work, but Gosling is disappointingly po-faced.

Bones is involved in a different kind of escapism, one that summons the fantasising protagonists of Gilliam’s The Fisher King and Tideland; Rat informs him a nearby town was flooded to build a reservoir, and that a curse can be lifted by capturing a beast from its depths. Gosling fails to elicit any interest in this plotline, however. Indeed, the only aspect that passes mention is how glaringly unsuited Smith is to the “villain” role, pratting about, shouting like a gumby, and, in a particularly unpleasant sequence, decapitating a rat (that’s Nick, not Rat).

Tonally the picture lurches from twee sentimentalism (the TV shows suggest Jean Pierre Jeunet) to threats of violence and bloodshed (that would Refn again), without any guiding sensibility to bind them. Mainly though, Gosing’s story just isn’t any cop. If he had a really good one, he might make something interesting at some point, as there are more than enough moments and images here to suggest someone with far more potential than a purveyor of personality-free period pics or adapted works. If he’s going to be an indulgent filmmaker, though, he needs to work on why people should indulge him (even if that amounts to the scars from serving as a Mouseketeer). With the likes of Gilliam and Lynch, no one ever has to ask that question.

Comments

I just hope my death makes more cents than my life.

Joker (2019)
(SPOILERS) So the murder sprees didn’t happen, and a thousand puff pieces desperate to fan the flames of such events and then told-ya-so have fallen flat on their faces. The biggest takeaway from Joker is not that the movie is an event, when once that seemed plausible but not a given, but that any mainstream press perspective on the picture appears unable to divorce its quality from its alleged or actual politics. Joker may be zeitgeisty, but isn’t another Taxi Driver in terms of cultural import, in the sense that Taxi Driver didn’t have a Taxi Driver in mind when Paul Schrader wrote it. It is, if you like, faux-incendiary, and can only ever play out on that level. It might be more accurately described as a grubbier, grimier (but still polished and glossy) The Talented Ripley, the tale of developing psychopathy, only tailored for a cinemagoing audience with few options left outside of comic book fare.

My name is Dr. King Schultz, this is my valet, Django, and these are our horses, Fritz, and Tony.

Django Unchained (2012)
(MINOR SPOILERS) Since the painful misstep of Grindhouse/Death Proof, Quentin Tarantino has regained the higher ground like never before. Pulp Fiction, his previous commercial and critical peak, has been at very least equalled by the back-to-back hits of Inglourious Basterds and Django Unchained. Having been underwhelmed by his post Pulp Fiction efforts (albeit, I admired his technical advances as a director in Kill Bill), I was pleasantly surprised by Inglourious Basterds. It was no work of genius (so not Pulp Fiction) by any means, but there was a gleeful irreverence in its treatment of history and even to the nominal heroic status of its titular protagonists. Tonally, it was a good fit for the director’s “cool” aesthetic. As a purveyor of postmodern pastiche, where the surface level is the subtext, in some ways he was operating at his zenith. Django Unchained is a retreat from that position, the director caught in the tug between his all-important aesthetic pr…

This is very cruel, Oskar. You're giving them hope. You shouldn't do that.

Schindler’s List (1993)
(SPOILERS) Such is the status of Schindler’s List, it all but defies criticism; it’s the worthiest of all the many worthy Best Picture Oscar winners, a film noble of purpose and sensitive in the treatment and depiction of the Holocaust as the backdrop to one man’s redemption. There is much to admire in Steven Spielberg’s film. But it is still a Steven Spielberg film. From a director whose driving impulse is the manufacture of popcorn entertainments, not intellectual introspection. Which means it’s a film that, for all its commendable features, is made to manipulate its audience in the manner of any of his “lesser” genre offerings. One’s mileage doubtless varies on this, but for me there are times during this, his crowning achievement, where the berg gets in the way of telling the most respectful version of this story by simple dint of being the berg. But then, to a great or lesser extent, this is true of almost all, if not all, his prestige pictures.

She writes Twilight fan fiction.

Vampire Academy (2014)
My willingness to give writer Daniel Waters some slack on the grounds of early glories sometimes pays off (Sex and Death 101) and sometimes, as with this messy and indistinct Young Adult adaptation, it doesn’t. If Vampire Academy plods along as a less than innovative smart-mouthed Buffy rip-off that might be because, if you added vampires to Heathers, you would probably get something not so far from the world of Joss Whedon. Unfortunately inspiration is a low ebb throughout, not helped any by tepid direction from Daniel’s sometimes-reliable brother Mark and a couple of hopelessly plankish leads who do their best to dampen down any wit that occasionally attempts to surface.

I can only presume there’s a never-ending pile of Young Adult fiction poised for big screen failure, all of it comprising multi-novel storylines just begging for a moment in the Sun. Every time an adaptation crashes and burns (and the odds are that they will) another one rises, hydra-like, hoping…

And my father was a real ugly man.

Marty (1955)
(SPOILERS) It might be the very unexceptional good-naturedness of Marty that explains its Best Picture Oscar success. Ernest Borgnine’s Best Actor win is perhaps more immediately understandable, a badge of recognition for versatility, having previously attracted attention for playing iron-wrought bastards. But Marty also took the Palme d’Or, and it’s curious that its artistically-inclined jury fell so heavily for its charms (it was the first American picture to win the award; Lost Weekend won the Grand Prix when that was still the top award).

The world is one big hospice with fresh air.

Doctor Sleep (2019)
(SPOILERS) Doctor Sleep is a much better movie than it probably ought to be. Which is to say, it’s an adaption of a 2013 novel that, by most accounts, was a bit of a dud. That novel was a sequel to The Shining, one of Stephen King’s most beloved works, made into a film that diverged heavily, and in King’s view detrimentally, from the source material. Accordingly, Mike Flanagan’s Doctor Sleep also operates as a follow up to the legendary Kubrick film. In which regard, it doesn’t even come close. And yet, judged as its own thing, which can at times be difficult due to the overt referencing, it’s an affecting and often effective tale of personal redemption and facing the – in this case literal – ghosts of one’s past.

Exit bear, pursued by an actor.

Paddington 2 (2017)
(SPOILERS) Paddington 2 is every bit as upbeat and well-meaning as its predecessor. It also has more money thrown at it, a much better villain (an infinitely better villain) and, in terms of plotting, is more developed, offering greater variety and a more satisfying structure. Additionally, crucially, it succeeds in offering continued emotional heft and heart to the Peruvian bear’s further adventures. It isn’t, however, quite as funny.

Even suggesting such a thing sounds curmudgeonly, given the universal applause greeting the movie, but I say that having revisited the original a couple of days prior and found myself enjoying it even more than on first viewing. Writer-director Paul King and co-writer Simon Farnaby introduce a highly impressive array of set-ups with huge potential to milk their absurdity to comic ends, but don’t so much squander as frequently leave them undertapped.

Paddington’s succession of odd jobs don’t quite escalate as uproariously as they migh…

I'm reliable, I'm a very good listener, and I'm extremely funny.

Terminator: Dark Fate (2019)
(SPOILERS) When I wrote my 23 to see in 2019, I speculated that James Cameron might be purposefully giving his hand-me-downs to lesser talents because he hubristically didn’t want anyone making a movie that was within a spit of the proficiency we’ve come to expect from him. Certainly, Robert Rodriguez and Tim Miller are leagues beneath Kathryn Bigelow, Jimbo’s former spouse and director of his Strange Days screenplay. Miller’s no slouch when it comes to action – which is what these movies are all about, let’s face it – but neither is he a craftsman, so all those reviews attesting that Terminator: Dark Fate is the best in the franchise since Terminator 2: Judgment Day may be right, but there’s a considerable gulf between the first sequel (which I’m not that big a fan of) and this retcon sequel to that sequel.

There’s nothing stock about a stock car.

Days of Thunder (1990)
(SPOILERS) The summer of 1990 was beset with box office underperformers. Sure-thing sequels – Another 48Hrs, Robocop 2, Gremlins 2: The New Batch, The Exorcist III, even Back to the Future Part III – either belly flopped or failed to hit the hoped for highs, while franchise hopefuls – Dick Tracy, Arachnophobia – most certainly did not ascend to the stratospheric levels of the previous year’s Batman. Even the big hitters, Total Recall and Die Hard 2: Die Harder, were somewhat offset by costing a fortune in the first place. Price-tag-wise, Days of Thunder, a thematic sequel to the phenomenon that was Top Gun, was in their category. Business-wise, it was definitely in the former. Tom Cruise didn’t quite suffer his first misfire since Legend – he’d made charmed choices ever since playing Maverick – but it was a close-run thing.

You ever heard the saying, “Don’t rob the bank across from the diner that has the best donuts in three counties”?

2 Guns (2013)
(SPOILERS) Denzel Washington is such a reliable performer, that it can get a bit boring. You end up knowing every gesture or inflection in advance, whether he’s playing a good guy or a bad guy. And his films are generally at least half decent, so you end up seeing them. Even in Flight (or perhaps especially in Flight; just watch him chugging down that vodka) where he’s giving it his Oscar-nominatable best, he seems too familiar. I think it may be because he’s an actor who is more effective the less he does. In 2 Guns he’s not doing less, but sometimes it seems like it. That’s because the last person I’d ever expect blows him off the screen; Mark Wahlberg.

Now In Full Color, with a Happier Ending

Search This Blog