How I Spent My Summer Vacation

(Brief comments on post-'96 films seen while this site was on hiatus.)

I DREAMED OF AFRICA (27) (dir., Hugh Hudson) Kim Basinger, Vincent Perez, Liam Aiken, Eva Marie Saint [Here's how it works : crisis hits - poachers, a hurricane, someone getting bitten by a snake or gored by a buffalo - there's a flurry of activity, people rushing about - then it's over, Maurice Jarre's soupy score swells up, and our heroine offers some resilient bromide on the Magic and Mystery of Africa ("I am alone. And yet I am never alone. I am surrounded by Africa.") ; and so on till the next crisis. The pace is unvarying, the catalogue of disasters unedifying - nothing seems to change as a result - and the film's appetite for calendar-art visuals too prodigious for its own good : our first glimpse of Africa should be stunning, and we are indeed shown some majestic landscapes when the heroine first arrives from Venice - only Hudson can't resist a similarly luscious shot (boat chugging out of the canal at twilight) as the heroine leaves Venice, totally diluting the impact. Narrative gets lost somewhere between travelogue and eco-message - we never even learn about the accident that befell Perez' brother (though he promises that "I'll tell you about it someday"). Safari-park view of Africa - lots of wild animals, plus occasional picturesque natives - is glossy verging on offensive ; Ms. Basinger is a mannequin.

THE FLINTSTONES IN VIVA ROCK VEGAS (54) (dir., Brian Levant) Mark Addy, Stephen Baldwin, Kristen Johnston, Alan Cumming [Can't entirely get behind a film that begins with a farting dinosaur (who'd want to get behind a farting dinosaur?), but it's a lot more fun than you might expect, certainly a lot more fun than the lumbering original. Everyone seems a lot more relaxed (less pressure, obviously), throwing in daffy surprises along with the kidstuff - notably Cumming's double role, first as a two-foot-high green alien (don't ask) poking snooty fun at Fred's mental prowess, then in full-on Austin Powers mode as rock star "Mick Jagged", swearing eternal love for Barney's girlfriend Betty ("unless I'm on the road - on the road doesn't count," he adds quickly) ; and isn't that John Taylor of Duran Duran puzzling the kiddies with a Bill Wyman gag, disengaging himself from a girl - following the portentous announcement that "There is a criminal among us!" - to ask "How old did you say you were?"? The central duo recall Laurel and Hardy, dim Barney vs. orotund Fred (reinforced by the bit where they sleep in adjoining hammocks wearing 30s-style pointy night-caps), and even the cute Stone Age gags kind of work (I liked the carnival barker advertising "the 40-year-old man - one of Nature's miracles!") ; the cartoon origins inevitably mean dollar-signs in people's eyes and a swarm of red hearts when Fred first glimpses Wilma, but it's an excellent joke when the police circulate have-you-seen-this-man sketches of our heroes looking like their TV incarnations (cartoons, geddit?). Sunnier than the first film, even a little closer to wit (jokes about "Isaac Mizrocki" as opposed to "Steven Spielrock Presents") ; still no more than mindless fluff partially redeemed by good humour - and a cheerfully populist anti-money message - but you have to admire a film that can coax a lively performance out of Joan Collins, playing Wilma's rich mother ("What is this?" she asks, nostrils flaring, at the entrance to Betty's little pad ; "It's an apartment, Mother," says Wilma defiantly, "lots of people live this way" ; "That still doesn't make it right!" comes the reply). References to JURASSIC PARK and ALADDIN par for the course, but it's nice to see THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL in there as well...]

SHOW ME LOVE (71) (second viewing: 74) (dir., Lukas Moodysson) Alexandra Dahlstrom, Rebecka Liljeberg, Erica Carlson [Someone should take Mr. Moodysson's zoom-lens away, but most of his other choices work in this beguiling teenpic. Plot dynamics almost identical with GET REAL, but it's a lot less smug (and really makes the earlier film suffer by comparison), partly because it dovetails the gay-teen angle with the crushing boredom (viz. conformity) of living in a small town, partly because the heroines are a lot more vulnerable, less confident about their homosexuality - which in any case isn't presented as a life choice, more an extension of other feelings which may or may not be permanent (interesting that the girls come together from diametrically opposite impulses - one from a desire to break out, the other from a desire to be accepted). All seems a lot more convincing than the PC certitude of REAL, and the details are delightful - scouring teen mags to discover what's "in" and "out", watching the bingo on TV, humouring Dad when he says he likes your new CD, dreaming of raves and excitement ("I want to take some drugs!" wails Liljeberg, like an 8-year-old whining for ice-cream). The feelgood sweetness threatens to overpower - it's a rare case where the original title (FUCKING AMAL) seems a lot less appropriate than the commercially-imposed one - yet, looking back, you realise everyone's actually a bit of a jerk ; the low-key coda alone (and the fact that one exists, i.e. that we don't end on a crowd-pleasing high) marks it as a film of considerable subtlety.]

THE WHOLE NINE YARDS (48) (dir., Jonathan Lynn) Bruce Willis, Matthew Perry, Rosanna Arquette [Mustn't underestimate the pleasures here : leafy Montreal locations, pusillanimous Perry doing Bob-Hope-as-neurotic-yuppie (he's a lot less funny falling off chairs and running into glass doors), and a plot that keeps the twists coming right up to the end rather than devolving into straight action comedy. Trouble is, not unlike DROWNING MONA - another of the year's attempts at farce-with-an-edge - it kicks off cartoonish and has nowhere to go : farce needs to get progressively wilder but everyone here behaves outlandishly from the outset, and the characters are too 'quirky' and exaggerated to take seriously. The twists are just twists, like the succession of landscapes in a travelogue - one watches with a certain detachment, idly wondering where we might be going next. Lively and disposable ; intermittently clever, but only to the extent that it's aimed at frat-boys rather than 14-year-olds.]

MY DOG SKIP (36) (dir., Jay Russell) Frankie Muniz, Kevin Bacon, Luke Wilson, Diane Lane [Bland-o-rama, milking tears it never really earns. Minor points for sheer artless simplicity / sincerity, plus occasional felicities - a cute bit where our young hero tries to sneak out the house decked out in full man-sized military regalia (he can barely walk, let alone sneak), or a shot (though it's also a cheap shot) of the boys' rapt faces as they're watching a movie. Otherwise formulaic, though it probably helps if you had a dog when you were a kid (I didn't) ; only consolation is it's set in the 40s rather than the 50s, sparing us the inevitable jolly montages set to rock'n roll classics.]

BATTLEFIELD EARTH (34) (dir., Roger Christian) John Travolta, Barry Pepper, Forest Whitaker [Not that bad, surely. Pretty damn funny, for one thing, semi-intentionally so judging by Travolta's outrageous scenery-chewing as he berates hapless Igor figure Forest Whitaker and comes up with the most bone-headed plan in the history of b-h. p.'s (let the prisoners escape while secretly monitoring them : they will then get hungry and start foraging, thereby revealing what their favourite food is and giving us valuable "leverage" over them!). Relentlessly stupid, but it's stupid in the touchingly naive way of Antonio Banderas learning the entire Norse language in one night in THE 13TH WARRIOR, not the ugly, too-hip-to-care way of BATMAN AND ROBIN or GODZILLA ; lots of evil laughter and tacky-looking prosthetics, plus a seven-days-to-save-the-world plot played without a hint of irony. My (semi-serious) theory - based on the disproportionate ridicule heaped on this and THE POSTMAN - is that critics are rubbed the wrong way by futuristic films where everyone looks scruffy : gleaming hi-tech visions of the future get a much easier ride (can it be they satisfy some basic human wish for the advancement of the species?). Other incidental thoughts to keep you amused as you sit through it : (i) was L. Ron Hubbard a younger brother? The evil Psychlos are just like us, only taller and stronger, and Travolta's always calling our (human) hero "rat-brain" and slapping him upside the head, exactly like a bullying older bro (his taunts and fiendish schemes wouldn't look out of place on a grade-school playground) ; (ii) everyone keeps saying there's no hint of Scientology here, but the heroes' plan involves infiltrating the power-centre of an explicitly capitalist society and gathering information while secretly pursuing their own agenda (sound familiar?). A cult movie, in every sense.]

DROWNING MONA (47) (dir., Nick Gomez) Danny DeVito, Bette Midler, Casey Affleck, Neve Campbell [Some would say there's nothing funny in jokes about hands being amputated or women getting clocked in the eye ; that's the point. This is white-trash comedy, designed to relax notions of what's "acceptable", hence (implicitly) trying to get away with more cinematically too - though one does eventually lose patience with its slack, pointless narrative. Tedious sub-Farrellyism, for the most part, not quite redeemed by glorious pixillated moments - the bickering cops, Will Ferrell's nutso undertaker, Tracey Walter describing a car-wreck as "beautiful, in an obtuse way" ; even Neve Campbell's Joisey accent has its attractions. Indie god Gomez is unobtrusive verging on anonymous, unless you count the crude lumps of 70s pop plastered on the soundtrack.]

A SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER NEVER CRIES (67) (dir., James Ivory) Leelee Sobieski, Kris Kristofferson, Barbara Hershey, Jesse Bradford [I love this film : I wish I could give it an 80+ rating and put it high on my Top Ten for the year ; yet that would be misleading, for it really doesn't work as a movie. Ivory's emotional reticence is unique - other directors may bypass melodrama, but no-one else deliberately manipulates their films so close to emotional pay-off only to deny it at the last moment ; the most subtle, elusive of endings crowns this marvellous but disjointed movie - Billy putting aside his mother's diary (which the film has been carefully building up for two hours), the suggestion being that he may or may not read it but it won't much matter either way : love for his adopted family shown by what he doesn't do rather than what he does - and it's both admirable and utterly exasperating. The film, a rare story of a happy, functional family, has scenes so pitch-perfect you want to cheer, and its spirit is wonderfully generous (it's profoundly satisfying when the campy, mixed-up Francis really comes through for our heroine when she's in trouble), but it shies away from cumulative impact (even Francis just disappears) ; it's a style based on dignity and respect for characters and refusing to reduce emotions by tackling them head-on - not for all tastes, but I find it exhilarating when, e.g. we stay on Billy shaving, pretending not to listen as his father reads his sister's essay about him (instead of looking at the father's reactions, as we would in most films). In its own perverse way, a kind of masterpiece ; yet it doesn't work.]

I STAND ALONE / SEUL CONTRE TOUS (73) (dir., Gaspar Noé) Philippe Nahon, Blandine Lenoir [Pretty heavy - much of it is just images of the hero walking along as he rants and rails in voice-over - but immensely powerful, from the pre-credits photo montage to the rush of thoughts crowding his mind unbearably in the climax (which is unbearable for the viewer too, then redeemed by the most moving, healing use of classical music I've heard since Beethoven's Seventh in THE WATERDANCE). Among other things, an incisive comment on what creates support for the Jean Marie Le Pens of the world, though the politics remain thankfully implicit (Tony Rayns' comment in "Sight & Sound" that the film evades the issue by being set in the early 80s, before the rise of the far-Right, is incredibly lame : surely it makes more sense to say it examines the roots of that rise, i.e. the climate Le Pen appealed to?). Hardly entertaining, but clearly among the films of the year ; as a look at life among the have-nots, it's worthy of Bukowski.]

ANYWHERE BUT HERE (51) (dir., Wayne Wang) Susan Sarandon, Natalie Portman, Shawn Hatosy [One big advantage over TUMBLEWEEDS : as implied by the title, it's the story of a disaffected daughter rather than a mother-daughter partnership, and consequently makes the mother seem overbearing rather than admirable and free-spirited. It's much more interesting, though it seems to have happened almost by accident - it's as though everyone kept pushing the mother closer and closer to emotional abusiveness, figuring she'd somehow remain sympathetic, then found they had a distaff version of THIS BOY'S LIFE on their hands, back-pedalling furiously in the final sequence. Soft-centred, obviously, but surprisingly sharp - the bit where Sarandon totally misunderstands the girl's dream has a real sardonic edge to it ; Portman's air of composed beauty makes her vulnerability all the more poignant.]

THE ASTRONAUT'S WIFE (34) (dir., Rand Ravich) Charlize Theron, Johnny Depp, Joe Morton [Theron's haircut is meant to evoke ROSEMARY'S BABY, and she's also reprising her DEVIL'S ADVOCATE role - the sweet small-town wife following her husband to the treacherous big city (where the other wives are jaded and say things like "I used to be into Aids but now I'm into hunger"). The film is a long way behind either, especially in the second half when the Depp character turns into an increasingly abstract menace and the director jazzes up one heroine-in-peril sequence after another (the flashy effects seem increasingly desperate). Worst of all is perhaps that we never get to know Depp before the accident - possibly a deliberate ploy, strengthening the theory that it's all in her head, but a rather sneaky way of going about it (not to mention self-defeating : there's no tension, because we can't tell if he really has changed). Ultimately a dud, albeit with redeeming features.]

LIBERTY HEIGHTS (56) (dir., Barry Levinson) Ben Foster, Adrien Brody, Joe Mantegna [Levinson's hired Chris Doyle to DP and thrown in a couple of (surely inappropriate?) Tom Waits songs, but it's still the same cosy Levinson world, with gratuitous chatter on tangential topics (mules and cricket provide some of the conversational highlights), cheerful Jewish stereotypes ("Pagans, schmagans," says Grandma) and buzzwords - from MARTY to McCarthy - dropped into the dialogue as "period detail". The incidents are often treasurable, albeit cute (young Foster dressing up as Hitler for Halloween, or refusing to "walk out on Sinatra"), but they don't add up to much, and Levinson's balance is a bit off - the kidnapping twist is too melodramatic for this context. Very winning - nice to see a film without villains - but also hokey : typical that the last line, the familiar quote about "If I'd known things would disappear I'd have tried to remember more" (which I know I've heard before, though I don't remember where) is attributed (in V.O.) to "one of my relatives" rather than the real-life person who said it ; wouldn't want to scare off the mass audience wth an unfamiliar name - or spoil the cosiness with erudition.]

ISN'T SHE GREAT (45) (dir., Andrew Bergman) Bette Midler, Nathan Lane, David Hyde Pierce, Stockard Channing [Mind-boggling. A film about a woman who lived by denial - keeping her eye firmly on glamour and success, refusing to acknowledge personal problems ("no-one's going to buy a sexy novel written by a cancer victim") - that operates in exactly the same way, refusing to dwell on / think about tragedy : deliberate statement, or were the film-makers drawn to this shallow woman because they themselves are too shallow to realise they're treating a dark story as fluffy comedy? Starts as vaudeville, gets increasingly bizarre as real life barely makes a dent in the fun-loving tone ("And then our son was born," says Lane, and you wait for the punchline - but there isn't one ; their son was born autistic ; oh well...). You can't despise it, though - it's sincere in its insincerity, apparently convinced that people are vacuous and trash-minded even (or especially) if they seem serious (they're just repressing themselves, like Hyde Pierce's absurd WASP). Orange and turquoise, plus Dionne Warwick, in the opening credits ; silly, showbiz-column tone throughout ; diminishing returns set in, but fun nonetheless ; likeable work from Lane, very welcome cameos from Christopher McDonald in QUIZ SHOW mode and Bergman regular Paul Benedict.]

LE DINER DE CONS (45) (dir., Francis Veber) Thierry Lhermitte, Jacques Villeret ["Mild" the operative word here : mildly funny, mildly inventive, Villeret's "con" only midly idiotic, running-time and production values mild (short and modest, respectively). Pacing lets it down, never taking off into dizzying farcical intricacy - some scenes seem about to soar (e.g. the phone call that gets distracted by football rivalries) but things turn sensible far too quickly. Its commercial success probably reflects a nostalgia for old-fashioned farce more than anything.]

EAST IS EAST (49) (dir., Damien O'Donnell) Om Puri, Linda Bassett, Jordan Routledge [Something cheaply manipulative about broad comedy (often linked to feelgood pop songs) used to soften the drama - it's borderline-offensive when we go from a harrowing scene of domestic violence straight to a fluffy interlude in a high-camp milliner's shop. Worst of all, the culture-clash is only (so to speak) skin-deep - the film knows that the kids are right, the father sad and deluded and multiculturalism clearly the way to go : it remains only for the audience to congratulate itself, and fun to be poked at a time safely past. Best not to see it as a satire at all (it doesn't seem to care overmuch about its supposed target) ; best to see it as a family soap-cum-sitcom, in which light it's raucous, affectionate and often entertaining. Bassett and (especially) Puri magnificent - the way he turns round at the end to acknowledge the little English boy's clumsy greeting ("Aleikum salam") brings a lump to the throat - but it's still pretty superficial. Note to other Carry On fans : doesn't the next-door neighbour look just like Joan Sims?]

THE MILLION DOLLAR HOTEL (38) (dir., Wim Wenders) Jeremy Davies, Mel Gibson, Milla Jovovich, Peter Stormare [Will film-buffs of the future someday look on these late Wenders films as the playful outpourings of an ageing master, a la RIO LOBO and FAMILY PLOT? Possibly - though hopefully they won't lose sight of their basic awfulness. At least this one tries to be a comedy (unlike END OF VIOLENCE), though only Stormare - in, admittedly, the juiciest role - manages actually to be as wild and zany as the rest constantly proclaim themselves : Davies, stuck with an awful role, gives struggling manfully a bad name, while Gibson just looks stoical, coasting on star presence. The script aims to give the impression of being tossed together in one night, and pretty much does, only the effect isn't quite as intended - it wants to seem loose and nonchalant, but turns out merely slapdash and sophomoric : more puns than you can shake a Humour 101 rule-book at, plus out-of-nowhere aphorisms meant to function as wacky pearls of wisdom. "Never trust politicians or parking-metres," says someone, and we are so meant to catch the Dylan semi-reference. Tries too hard to be cool, and that includes Wenders' pools-of-light colour scheme and offbeat compositions ; but they are rather striking.]

LAST NIGHT (59) (dir., Don McKellar) Don McKellar, Sandra Oh, David Cronenberg, Genevieve Bujold [A very Canadian apocalypse : everyone doing their best to be civil, everything low-key, everyday problems taking precedence over empty spectacle. Placid surface hides a gritty, sometimes kinky sensibility, and this clever, careful stab at the Ultimate Premise (the end of the world!) certainly has its moments, even if it can't exactly evoke such a vast subject on its TV budget. More a skilful jape than a proper movie, but nicely done : Bujold's farewell at the end of the French lesson ("Au revoir, Madame" ; "Adieu," she corrects), the meeting with Menzies (the awkwardness of running into old high-school friends - even with the world about to end), the family dinner, all among the highlights. McKellar's dialogue is a bit too crafted, and neither he nor Oh are very charismatic actors ; pace is sedate, visuals undistinguished ; but the ending is perfect.]

VENUS BEAUTE (INSTITUT) (55) (dir., Tonie Marshall) Nathalie Baye, Bulle Ogier, Samuel Le Bihan [Superior chick-flick, steeped in melancholy with hints of ethereal 'magic' (though the Tinkerbell Effect - a piano glissando every time the door opens - gets old fast) ; the mix works reasonably, with splendid detail (e.g. the artfully-contrived sparks over the final kiss), but it gets a bit repetitive after the first hour or so. Nice to see a feelgood film that actually depends on feelbad sadness 90% of the time (we feel good for the characters having finally found a way out), and there's an interesting point about surface vs. inner life, the beauty-salon catering only to the former ; but it doesn't really go anywhere, nor do the characters especially develop. Baye is an elegant presence, but her mournful mien comes perilously close to listlessness ; could it be the role required (gulp) a younger actress?...]