Jhoom Barabar Jhoom: The Conversation Continued

When I wrote my review of JBJ, I did so in the hopes that LA Weekly's Bollywood critic David Chute would read the piece. David has been on the cutting edge of film viewing trends since his days advocating Hong Kong cinema before it was cool to do so. He's perceptive and I wanted to know what he and his fellows over at the Hungry Ghost Blog thought about my little piece.

The blog highlighted my review and I was immediately attacked (not personally) in the comments section for beginning my piece with a discussion of a disconnect between the opinions of the native viewing audience in India and the opinions of those American critics who deigned to review the piece. Tulkinghorn, writing from his "capacious writing-table... on which is a pretty large accumulation of papers," was the one who took me to task by stating (slightly edited):

Gee.

Seems to me that trying to figure out what people in Glendale think about American blockbusters is hard enough if you... live in Glendale.

Trying to figure out from Southern California what people in Bombay think about Indian blockbusters is almost certainly pointless.

It violates either one or both of David's rules in the immediately preceding post.

On the other hand, figuring out why YOU like the movie is very useful...

I take it as a complement that the sinister attorney is interested in my own reasons for liking/disliking a particular film.

Mr. Chute, who for some reason goes by the name Generic on the blog (I will have to talk with him about this), came to my defense in an interesting comment. What was most interesting about the comment was a quote that had little to do with my JBJ review per se. His comment included a kernel of an underlying philosophy of what it is to be a reviewer, a question that I find very interesting -- and will write more about tomorrow when I look at an essay Poe wrote about Poetry criticism. Mr. Chute writes:

As I understood the code of the profession when I was coming up the ideal was not care whether a given film had been validated by the box office or other critics. If you liked something, you said so. To do other wise was dishonest and/or cowardly. Each critic creates his/her own Pantheon. Endorsing something the cool group despised was a badge of honor; in a twisted way this made you even cooler.

This is followed by comments in defense of my original review. Kind and insightful words, but nowhere near as interesting as the paragraph above. There is so much to unpack in this paragraph that one could devote a career, let alone a series of blog entries, to examining the assumptions discussed in it. I should point out that nothing in the above states that Mr. Chute currently agrees with the content of the paragraph, merely that it represents the code of the critical profession as he understood it when he was "coming up." Never the less, it is an exciting paragraph.

I wrote a quick response, which sadly ended up as the last word on the topic. I am going to reproduce my comment in full here, in the hopes of soliciting more discussion.

I believe a critic should always examine his/her own views in relation to the views of others, both other critics and "the masses." One should always be reflective when reviewing. The box office may not be a perfect measurement of the zeitgeist, but I have taken to many economics courses to dismiss Price, and the willingness to pay, as at minimum a proxy for what people enjoy.

I firmly agree that the views of others, the "public" if you will, should not shape what a critic says. Otherwise, their opinion is a mere populist voicing that adds nothing to the medium. And adding something to the medium is one of the legitimate roles of the critic.

Equally, reviling something the cool group likes, merely because they like it (I know this isn't what you are advocating) is as pointless as liking something because other like it. Certainly, another legitimate role of the critic is to champion that which might otherwise be overlooked, or even reviled, were it not for an astute critical mind.

I believe that by examining the disconnect between critical reception and audience reception, one can find both why one enjoyed a film, but also what one might otherwise overlook.

I would never have overlooked the slow first act of JHOOM BARABAR JHOOM, it was readily apparent but as readily overwhelmed by the overall enjoyment of the film. A large rock takes a lot of effort to move, but once it is moving it really moves. JBJ was the same.

I might have overlooked the soft gloved, almost trivial, way the movie dealt with Pakistani and Indian relations if I wasn't focused on thinking about the disconnect. A part of the film takes place in England, and I've read enough John King to understand that setting the film in England involves certain assumptions -- which are barely touched on in the film. Partly because we are dealing with Romantic Comedy and you don't want to go too dark. But that is what separates "Loves Labours Lost" from "Much Ado About Nothing," the stakes are different.

While I would never presume to speak for why the Indian public responded to JBJ less enthusiastic than I did, knowing that they did helps me examine beyond first impressions. One must find tools to break through their visceral and vicarious eyes to get to the voyeuristic one.

FRED CLAUS: A Late Holiday Review

If someone were to limit themselves to Christmas films released in the 90s and early 2000s as the foundation for judging the merits of Christmas movies as a genre, it's likely they would find them wanting. Very few of the movies are classics. Crass commercial pieces like Jingle All the Way, misguided narratives like Jack Frost, combined with the absent-minded parents of Home Alone and the meanness of the characters in Deck the Halls, might lead a viewer to believe that Hollywood film-makers have lost the ability to make a touching Christmas film. 

Some might argue that many of the "going to visit the quirky family" Christmas films are a reaction to memories of syrupy/saccharin Christmas films of yore. Maybe these films are the product a combination of this reaction with the cold reality that most of us are not blessed with the idyllic families of Christmas movies past. Never mind that the families actually depicted in the classic films are often broken -- like the single mother in Miracle on 34th Street -- or enduring significant hardships like the Baileys in It's a Wonderful Life. There seems to be some part of the post 1950s film-making gestalt that is resistant to making movies that are fun and heartwarming. 

Naturally, there are wonderful exceptions. About a Boy and Love Actually present lovely narratives that capture the holiday spirit without being too sugary sweet. And Jon Favreau's modern masterpiece Elf manages to successfully bridge the gap between adolescent fart comedy and truly capturing the Christmas spirit. Even an overly commercial franchise like The Santa Claus can have wonderful moments, as demonstrated by the second film in the trilogy (avoid the others), where the value of the season and the warmth of giving can be seen. 

Before this meandering preamble is misunderstood, this is not a discussion of any so-called "War on Christmas" -- which is just so much blustering attempting to reignite/fuel existing culture wars. Anyone who has read our earlier Holiday Movie Marathon list should be well aware that isn't what is going on here. This is a conversation about the making of quality Christmas movie fare. A phenomenon that seems to happen less often of late than TCM makes me believe once was the norm. One finds it hard to imagine a Jingle All the Way being directed by Ernst Lubitsch. 

It was films like Love Actually and Elf that made me believe that maybe Hollywood -- yes I know Love Actually is British, but when talking about film one almost always blames/praises Hollywood -- had finally outgrown its obsessive avoidance of potentially corny fare. Hollywood, like most modern comic book fans, seems to want to appear to favor "sophisticated" narratives over "simplistic" and "corny" ones. The same observation applies to most modern film critics as well. Never mind how moving the final scene of The Shop Around the Corner is, it seems they would prefer Alfred Kralik spend Christmas shooting up heroin in an alleyway while freezing to death instead of finding the woman of his dreams. 

One might argue that this resistance to "corn" goes beyond the Christmas season, but that is not the purpose of this background. As was written above, Elf directed by Jon Favreau is one of the films that made this humble film viewer believe that there was room for the heartfelt Christmas comedy. Last November, Vince Vaughn followed in his friend's footsteps and starred in a Christmas comedy film. The name of the film was Fred Claus and it was released on DVD this past November 25, just in time for this year's holiday season. Vince Vaughn is an actor who has given audiences some wonderful performances in both dramas and comedies. The Break-Up is one of the better films of the past few years, and Dodgeball is a comedic gem. Vaughn is, for lack of a better comparison, our generation's version of Dean Martin. A giant Dean Martin who doesn't have any albums, but Dean Martin none the less. 

The question then stands, "is Fred Claus typical Hollywood cynicism or does it have 'heart' like the best of Christmas films?" The answer to this not so simple question, is simply...neither. The film doesn't showcase your typical Hollywood cynicism, but it does contain some. It alternates between cynicism and critiquing cynicism. Nor does the film have a genuine emotional core. It seems to want a core, but it lacks any real emotional depth. Let us give a basic synopsis of the story and use this as a place to simultaneously find some of the areas where the film failed. The film begins, simply enough, with a voice over introducing the setting -- which as it turns out is an idyllic winter cottage. As the audience we, along with a very young Fred Claus, witness the birth of one Nickolas Claus.

This leaves the audience needing to react to two suspension of disbelief removing moments. First, one might argue that beginning a Christmas movie with labor and birth isn't the most endearing way to begin a film. Second, everyone knows that Claus is a nickname for Nickolas and making the family's last name Claus just to make the film's title -- and titular character -- make sense is beyond lame. These facts alone make it hard for an audience to maintain what Jon Boorstin would call our Vicarious eye (not to mention our Visceral eye which is never appealed to in this film) and leaves the film victim to our most critical viewing lens, our Voyuer's eye.

At Claus's birth, young Fred promises to be the "best big brother ever." It is a promise that Fred intends to keep, but one that he fails to keep in the background of our film's narrative. You see, Nickolas Claus is a Saint and leads a saintly life. Nick and Fred's mother is proud of Nick, but continually asks Fred why he cannot be more like his brother. There are a number of scenes devoted to increasing Fred's resentment of Nick. Thus the film is given its potentially cynical beginning when Santa's brother is turned into envious sibling.

It should be noted that there is one scene in the film's opening that could have been put to very good use in discussing what the Christmas season is all about. Fred gives Nickolas a hand made journal with Nickolas' name engraved on the cover. Nickolas proceeds to plop the journal on top of other presents he will deliver to "more needy" children. The film mentions that the season is about the joy of giving, but this could have become a major theme of the film. Being a thankful receiver is in itself a wonderful gift. Instead it is mentioned and then handed off. Nickolas becomes St. Nick (Santa Claus)and he and his family are granted immortality as he becomes the world famous toy giver.

While the audience may be willing to accept that the entire Claus clan becomes immortal, the film never explains why Nickolas -- the younger brother -- seems so much older than Fred -- the older brother.

Cut to the modern day where Fred is a jaded man who is one step away from being a grifter, but there may be hope for this character yet. He has a girlfriend, with obligatory relationship trouble, and seems to be taking care of a struggling young boy -- who is shortly taken into custody by child protective services. The stage is set for Fred's redemption, even if his current primary concern is raising 50k to start up a casino across the street from the stock exchange. One thing leads to another and Fred finds himself in jail. He calls his brother to bail him out, both for the jail's bail and a loan for the casino, and agrees to help his brother get ready for Christmas in return for the money. And Santa really does need the help as "the board" has sent efficiency expert Clyde (Kevin Spacey) to evaluate whether Santa gets to keep his job.

Who this board is and why they want to out source Santa's business is never really explained. Clyde's own anger is examined, in a good scene, but the board's reasoning remains a mystery.

Things go badly, Santa has a nervous breakdown, and Fred must save Christmas.

There is a Fred as matchmaker subplot that rings of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and some commentary as to what constitutes a "naughty kid." In the case of this film, all naughty kids are naughty due to circumstances. There are, the film claims, no naughty kids. Which explains why the jerk who picks on the kids at school still gets the Atari 2600 for Christmas.

The film has one or two touching moments as Fred attempts to save Christmas, and his brother's job, but it also vacillates between the heartfelt and the cynical. The film's narrative seems as confused as the films Santa mythology. Vince Vaughn, Kevin Spacey, and John Michael Higgens all put in very strong performances. One imagines that many of the best lines in the film are adlibbed by Vaughn. Rachel Weisz is underused and Kathy Bates' character seemingly repeats one line ad nauseum. But scenes like the one where Fred "livens up" the north pole's radio listening selection are unnecessary and bring the narrative to a halt. One should not include scenes in a screenplay merely because they make for neat visual comedy. 

The special effects are good. The set design is usually very good. The score and the soundtrack are also enjoyable. The film's editing would have been helped by a more cohesive screenplay. Fred Claus is entertaining at times, but it remains a confused film with too many narrative subplots -- too often ignored -- and too little heart. 

Two-and a Half out of Five Stars

What's in a Film Rating: 4 Stars? Five Stars? Letter Grade? or Jumping Happy Man?

Last week, Roger Ebert posted a journal entry discussing his own use of the four-star rating system and contrasted it with the San Francisco Chronicle's "Little Man." The post makes for interesting reading. Go read it and come back...

Did you notice the something interesting about Ebert's methodology? Here's the quote, "I consider 2.5 stars to be thumbs down; they consider 62.5 to be favorable." For Ebert 2.5 Stars is "thumbs down." I find this quite odd, and you should too for a few reasons. First, it is lunacy to use a system that provides a median value and have anything at or above that median value be "thumbs down." Second, it is counter-intuitive to American audiences, particularly those in the GPA obsessed era, to think of a 2.5 (mid-point between a C+ at 2.3 and a B- at 2.7) as a failing grade. Third, Ebert admits that he once "considered 2.5 stars to be a perfectly acceptable rating for a film I rather liked in certain aspects." This is an admission that demonstrates an inconsistency in his rating system. Some might argue growth, but I'd argue inconsistency since one reading his older reviews might misinterpret the meaning if they are familiar with his current use of 2.5 stars. The internets, and Lexis/Nexis, allow us to do such things without buying books collecting his reviews -- books which can be "retconned" easily.

For my part, I can't understand why any critic using the 4 point system wouldn't automatically convert any such ratings into a grade point scale. I know I do it -- almost subconsciously. A four star rating is an A, a 3 star is a B, 2 stars C, 1 star D, and no stars is an F. I'll avoid most D movies, but if there's no grade inflation a C should be "average."

And essentially this gets to the core of what I'm trying to say, which is to say that Ebert -- as he alludes in the title to his entry -- does indeed rate too highly. He's a grade-inflator. If he likes a movie, it's automatically a B or better. From a less skilled critic, I would blame it on a lack of subtlety of thought or to an exaggeration of the critic's Primal Screen. In this case, I'll write it off as another case of grade inflation...something we certainly need less of in our teachers, and apparently our reviewers.

If you haven't guessed, this is why I use a 5 point scale. That way a 2.5 might be a film that has some small elements I enjoy, but it is still a film that shouldn't be recommended. But then MetaCritic, Rotten Tomatoes, and I get into a disagreement. I think that a median rated film should be viewed as a median film, neither good nor bad. I don't like binary systems. Certainly, there are some films I would recommend to everyone and there are some films I would warn everyone to avoid. But there are also some films that I would recommend for some people and not others and that doesn't necessarily mean they are bad films, just that they aren't universal.

Bangkok Dangerous (2008): Thai Action Not as "Hot" as Hong Kong

The early 1990s marked the heyday for the Hong Kong action film and its infiltration into the zeitgeist of the American film industry. Critics were enamored of the post-Peckinpah stylization of violence as depicted in the films of directors like John Woo, Tsui Hark, Jackie Chan, and Ronnie Yu. Hong Kong's action industry featured directors, and stars, who were conversant with the "history of film."

John Woo's films had scenes inspired by movie musicals and films from the French New Wave. Tsui Hark introduced Western style special effects to martial arts epics. Jackie Chan's martial arts films were direct descendants of the films of Harold Lloyd, Buster Keaton, and Laurel and Hardy. Ronnie Yu's use of color and isolation of training sequences as dance numbers hinted at the work of Stanley Donen. These were directors who were using inspirations from outside the action genre to feed new life into what had become a stale genre. In all ways, the Hong Kong directors seemed obsessed with pushing the boundary of what action films could offer. And critics and cinephiles were eating it up buffet style.

But like the American action film, the Hong Kong action film was doomed to eventually become a parody of itself. The HK action film industry, and its disciples, was doomed by its very inspiration. By creating an industry dedicated to pushing the limits of action, and what defines action, they set the stage for a tragic fall.

Before we come back to the HK film, lets look at where American actioners where in the early 90s. It is often forgotten that a film like DIE HARD had inserted new life into the American action film. Forgotten because the 90s were filled with derivative, routine, and stale films that provided the formula of action and little genuine action. American offerings in the 90s included HARD TO KILL, which had some freshness with regard to the presentation of martial arts, but soon spiraled into a series of Steven Seagal "Three Word Title" films of little or no merit.

1990 saw the release of weak, and routine, actioners like NAVY SEALS, ANOTHER 48 HOURS and YOUNG GUNS II, even while continuing the wave of fresh films following in the footsteps of DIE HARD. The year is filled with films like KINDERGARTEN COP, TOTAL RECALL, DIE HARD II and PREDATOR II. It should be noted that two of the good actioners of 1990 star Arnold Schwartzenegger, who will play a role in the decline of the action film, and that two are sequels. And we all know how much film franchises benefit from sequelitis.

1991 featured the release of LIONHEART, a film signaling the decline of an action star's cache, OUT FOR JUSTICE -- a "Three Word Title" Seagal film -- HARLEY DAVIDSON AND THE MARLBORO MAN, and POINT BREAK. There are places where one can find critics who are POINT BREAK apologists, the Cinerati website is one of those places, but one doesn't have to look hard at 1991 to see that the American action film industry was desperately in need of a blood transfusion. The Hong Kong action film was there to provide the service.

And what a service it was. Critics and fans loved the films. Eventually, partially due to the end of independent Hong Kong, the industry as it was known died out. Films like Tsui Hark's KNOCKOFF, an American film starring a faded American star, attempted to pack all of the virtues of an entire industry into one film, ending up with a farce of what the industry once was.

Since that decline, fans and critics have been looking for the "next Hong Kong." Which foreign market will inspire and influence the next wave of American film making. Will it be Korea, Bollywood, Turkey, or an "old world" infusion? No one knows for sure. It could be any one of the above, it could be all of the above. We have already seen considerable influence from all of the above.

There is one cinema that we can be relatively sure won't be the major influence, at least in the near future, for the next great wave of action films. That cinema is the cinema of Thailand. Certainly their films, like those of Tony Jaa, often feature unrelenting action. They are certainly, as was the case for the 1999 Pang Brothers film BANGKOK DANGEROUS, inspired by the Hong Kong industry. But they seemed to lack something that their HK predecessors had in spades -- seriousness. The Thai films sometimes seem to be pushing the limit merely to push the limit, or attempt to be an exaggeration of the operatic tragedy of an HK mobster film.

No place can one see the lack of connection these Thai films are having with American critics, and audiences, than with this month's American remake of BANGKOK DANGEROUS. The film was directed by the directors of the original and it stars a marquee level action actor. Given the proper climate, BANGKOK DANGEROUS would be a successful film if it had the proper combination of desired narrative elements, but it appears that American audiences aren't ready for Thai action.

The box office for the film was miserable, and the film rated only 8% fresh on Rotten Tomatoes. The reasons for the negative critical response are varied. Some critics have genuine criticisms that we should take into consideration, others seem to be merely riding the wave of negativity for the sake of being cool and writing an amusing scathing assault in the hopes of being quoted later -- possibly at the Razzies. I'd like to take a look at some of the "creme of the crop" responses to the new BANGKOK DANGEROUS, but first I'd like to offer my thoughts.

What is BANGKOK DANGEROUS? What is it not? And is it any good?

To answer the first question, BANGKOK DANGEROUS is an attempt at a "serious action drama." It is the Pang Brothers' remake of their fairly successful Thai action film from 1999. The 2008 version contains a prototypical, to the point of being cliche, Hong Kong assassin narrative. In these narratives an assassin seeks to leave the world of killing (echoes of the leaving Jiang Hu trope that is central in most Wuxia films) and seeks to live a normal life -- usually to fail in this pursuit. The failure is usually tied to a redemption of the assassin's moral character, the assassin moves from nihilist to hero over the course of the narrative. BANGKOK DANGEROUS follows this narrative to an almost farcical degree. Where the blinding of a character, and the newfound love between the blind girl and the assassin, is a central component of John Woo's THE KILLER, the use of a deaf girl as a redeemer in BANGKOK DANGEROUS is an almost cardboard imitation. It almost falls into parody. Almost. The performance of Cage and the young woman manage to salvage the dynamic, but never manage to make it visceral. The same is true for the majority of the other performances, they are serviceable but lack the depth necessary to bring the film out of the mediocre.

Most of BANGKOK DANGEROUS is well shot and presents a beautiful neon version of the city. The cinematography is almost brilliant in this regard, but an over-commitment to shadows and an overarching blue palette make the film seem murky at times. The overarching blue palette is a trademark of many HK films which often have a misty blue atmosphere. The use of the blue atmospherics once again demonstrate how BANGKOK DANGEROUS is an attempt at imitating the HK magic, but imitation is not art. Like the cinematography, the score seems influenced by prior art and lacks any real originality or power.

What BANGKOK DANGEROUS isn't is the wild romp of never ending action that the trailer hinted the film would be. It's not even close. Yes, there is action, but the action builds naturally and is sharply focused. This part of the narrative is the film at its best, when the trailer makes it look like this is the most farcical portion of the vehicle.

Finally, is the film any good? As you might have guessed from the above comments, BANGKOK DANGEROUS is a film that could have been excellent. It could have been the kind of action film American audiences were looking for, but it seems to lack some quality. It seems to lack spirit or heart. In the end, audiences are given a passable, and predictable, film that is better than an 8% Tomato Meter would lead one to believe. It reminds us that to be "rotten" a film need only be 2 1/2 stars out of five and that's actually not that bad.

Most of the creme of the crop critics seem to agree that the film falls within the 2 1/2 star range, with a few exceptions.

One thing is certain, the film isn't what one might expect from either the 8% Tomato Meter, nor from the film's advertising campaign.

If Danny and Oxide Pang lived within the fictional world of BANGKOK DANGEROUS, the recently released remake of the 1999, an underground business associate might recommend that they hire Kong two groups of people.

As his first assignment, Kong would be asked to make it seem as if Bryan Tyler had died of natural causes. Tyler's score accomplishes two undesirable ends. It manages to suck the life out of any action scene while simultaneously making the personal conflict scenes of the film seem unbearably slow paced. As was the case with his core for BUBBA HO-TEP, Tyler's BANGKOK DANGEROUS score exaggerates the weaknesses of the film it accompanies, rather than helping to overcome them by pulling the proper audio heartstrings. Tyler has done good work on previous films like THE GREATEST GAME EVER PLAYED and CONSTANTINE, so he doesn't deserve a brutal and public death for others to see "as an example."

The company who edited the film previews for BANGKOK DANGEROUS, on the other hand, deserve brutal and public executions that will serve as a lesson to those who make misleading trailers. The trailer made it appear as if BANGKOK DANGEROUS would be the most ridiculous action film since SHOOT 'EM UP, and that is not a connection any filmmaker would desire. SHOOT 'EM UP is 90 minutes of unrelenting violence and is arguably the worst action film ever made, while BANGKOK DANGEROUS is a moderately paced East Asian style neo-noir film that contains moments of action. The majority of the potential audience for what the film actually presented likely wrote the film off upon seeing the trailer.

RATING: 3 out of 5 Stars

HOOT (2006): A Story About "Sense of Place" that Has No Place in My Heart

Nothing is more American than moving from place to place, wandering from city to city, and following the new job to the new state. America's history of movement into the "frontier" was the driving force behind Fredrick Jackson Turner's book about the American character. Americans, it can almost be said, are a people with no sense of permanency and no sense of "home." Almost, because though Americans seem to ever be seeking the greener valley just over the hill, they also create art that represents the longing for "place" central to the human condition.

The central conflict in HOOT is a young man's pursuit of permanency and his need to feel a sense of place. Roy Eberhardt (Logan Lerman) is a boy who has attended 6 schools in the past 8 years as his father's job with the Department of Justice has required frequent moves. Just as the family gets settled in a new location, just as Roy feels at home, they move again -- most recently from Montana to Coconut Grove, Florida.

The film is adapted from Carl Hiaasen's novel of the same name (HOOT was Hiaasen's first venture into writing for younger readers). In all of Hiaasen's novels, the setting is as important as any of the quirky characters his readers encounter. The same goes for HOOT.

Upon arriving in Coconut Grove, Roy encounters the stereotypical bully Dana Matherson (Eric Philips) who mashes Roy's face against the school bus window on the trip to school. It is this action that introduces one of two interesting characters in the film, a homeless and barefoot environmentalist middle-schooler named Mullet Fingers. The character's origin is as implausible as his name. While Mullet's character concept is quirky enough to be memorable, Cody Linley's performance in the role leaves one wishing they could forget the character. Roy also meets a bully-bashing girl named Beatrice (Brie Larson) who, as it turns out, just happens to be Mullet Fingers' step-sister. Larson's performance is mixed. Early in the film, her acting seems forced, but as the character develops in the narrative Larson displays the ability to capture the changes. These three characters, leaving the bully aside, don't become "fast friends," but as the adventure unfolds they do become friends.

The film is filled with many quirky characters, from Muckle (Clark Gregg) the sinister Southeastern Regional Manager of Mother Paula's All-American Pancake House to Delinko (Luke Wilson) the absentminded law enforcement officer. Gregg's performance makes the error made all too often in "children's movies," it's way to over the top. Luke Wilson, on the other hand, is solid. Wilson could have resorted to a Barney Fife style performance, but he holds back and the audience is rewarded with a couple of laughs -- desperately needed laughs.

In addition to the human characters, there are owls and the owls are in trouble. And this brings us to the conflict that moves the narrative along. Muckle wants to build a brand new Mother Paula's All-American Pancake House on a lot that includes homes of a number of families of burrowing owls. Roy, Beatrice, and Mullet Fingers take it upon themselves to fight against Muckle's destruction of the owl burrows. Mullet Fingers' preferred method of undermining the construction project is a series of pranksteresque that are supposed to dissuade the corporation from building on the site and that is where fun is supposed to ensue. Sadly, Mullet Fingers methods are as illogical as they are unfunny.

First, our environmentalist hero places a gator in the construction site's port-o-potty. That's right, in the chemicals -- chemicals that I would think at least mildly harmful to a two-foot long gator. Mullet then uses Cotton Mouth Water Moccasins to scare away guard dogs, by letting the snakes loose on the construction site...where the owls live. I don't know if releasing snakes into a field full of potential food is a good idea either. Needless to say, Mullet's ideas don't have the desired effect and the destruction of the burrows is going to take place anyway. That is until Roy, using the legal system, discovers that the Pancake company has altered their environmental impact report and that their construction is illegal. This knowledge will provide him the opportunity to save the owls, if only he can stop Muckle's bulldozer in time.

Wil Shriner, who has a great deal of television directing experience on some very good sitcoms and dramadies, seems a little out of his depth in his adaptation of the story. Shriner seems, like the middle of this review, too caught up in the "fun" of the pranksteresque attempts of Mullet Fingers and looses site of the real conflict here. The real story is that the owls and Roy are subject to the same conflict, displacement. Roy sympathizes, as the audience should, with the owls not merely because of environmental reasons (the law is already on his side), but because they are going to be uprooted like he has been 6 times in the past 8 years. This is a story about place and the value place has in our lives. If Roy can save the owls' home, maybe -- just maybe -- he can finally find a home. In a couple of sequences, Michael Chapman (the DP) captures the beauty of Coconut Grove, but these images are lost in the director's focus on the protest rather than on the longing to belong.

It's sad. There's a great story there somewhere, but in focusing on the external conflict -- the secondary conflict -- Shriner misses the opportunity to give his actors a chance to give real performances rather than pantomimes. Instead, audiences are left with a fairly standard children's movie. It's safe, it's mildly amusing, but it doesn't delight.

RATING: 2.5/5 Stars

Cinerati Reboot

In late December of 2003, I read an article at National Review Online (Kurosawa Kills Bill) discussing the relative lack of merit of the films Kill Bill vol. 1 and The Last Samurai. After reading the article, I realized that many film critics, including most conservative film critics, and I were having very different experiences when we watched movies in the theater.

It took me almost three months to draft a response that I thought was appropriate, and on March 16th 2004, the Cinerati blog had its first post published on the internet. The post was a direct response to Thomas Hibbs NRO piece, a defense of the films mentioned, an attack on filmic cultural selectivity, and my first foray back into criticism after leaving a roughly monthly shared film review column in the Sparks Daily Tribune titled Celluloid Say-So when I left for graduate school in 2000.

At the time, I had intended Cinerati to be a film discussion blog where friends of mine and I would share our thoughts on film and on the state of film criticism. It quickly became something else. The community of posters I had always desired quickly dwindled down to me, with an occasional post by another Cinerati member. And what was originally intended to be a site which focused primarily on films, ended up a site with far more commentary about games, comics, and more games. In short, Cinerati quickly grew away from its name and its purpose. This, combined with the fact that posting has been slow of late and some new encounters with film reviews, inspired me to reboot the site.

Gone will be mentions of roleplaying games, video games, comic books, etc. Those will be reserved for the Geekerati blog. From now on, this site will be devoted to discussion of movies and television. In particular, this site will engage with other critics of film and television. There are enough "review" sites on the internet, in fact there is a glut. Too much time is being spent evaluating the "narratives" of film and not enough is spent evaluating the "art" of films. What is needed is a site that examines what is being said about film and television and examines whether what is being said is meaningful.

Over the next few days, there will be a series of columns discussing the direction of the site, the types of columns that will be written, and examining what the proper roles of criticism are when it comes to film and television. Additionally, there will be discussions of the particular terminology, or turns of a phrase, that I will use from time to time.

In fact, my very next post will be a brief post highlighting what I mean when I say or write filmic cultural selectivity.

But first, let's have a look at that first post:

In the Shadow of Kurosawa

By Christian Johnson (now Christian Lindke)

I can still remember the first time I saw Rocky Horror Picture Show. There I was, a “virgin” watching rolls of toilet paper flying and getting wet from squirting water when I realized that I was sitting surrounded by an audience that didn’t “get it.” Here they were talking, mocking, and interacting with a film that was hilarious on its own merits. Somewhere in all the chaos I managed to watch a parody of some of my favorite classic Hollywood horror films. I had a similar, though drier, experience when I watched John Waters' Cecil B. Demented in a theater full of people who didn’t know who William Castle was.

I experienced the same frustration when I read Thomas Hibbs’ recent article regarding Quentin Tarantino’s most recent film Kill Bill vol. 1 and the Tom Cruise blockbuster The Last Samurai (Kurosawa Kills Bill). In particular, I took issue with his claim that “despite their critical acclaim and their purported desire to be faithful to Japanese sources, these films are but vulgar distortions of Japanese film culture, especially the work of Akira Kurosawa.” I was surprised by my reaction because I have more respect for Professor Hibbs than I do for most of the celebrated “cinerati” who, like me, enjoyed these two films. You see, I think that the Distinguished Professor of Ethics and Culture is on to something with regards to America’s elites having a disturbing affection for nihilism, the subject of his book Shows About Nothing. So my reaction did not originate from a disagreement about the merits of these films with regard to virtue or an expression of human excellence. To be fair, I don’t know what his opinions are regarding The Last Samurai as a film about virtue, but I have a fair idea regarding Kill Bill. My frustration stemmed from his accusation that these films were “distortions” of a genre “especially” the work of Akira Kurosawa.

This led me to ask two questions. First, are these films a “distortion of Japanese film culture?” Second, are these films “especially” referencing the work of Akira Kurosawa? I refuse to address any other of the statements made in Hibbs’ article because they provide a wonderful introduction to the works of an inspirational filmmaker -- he provides a valuable list of Kurosawa must sees, though he surprisingly leaves out High and Low. I also think that Hibbs was remiss in not mentioning Chushingura by Hiroshi Inagaki as another wonderful film about feudal Japan.

Kill Bill is exactly what it purports to be, a celebration of Japan’s b-movies in the Chambara genre (and to some extent the Wuxia and Kung Fu films of Hong Kong). While Akira Kurosawa’s films (among them Sanjuro, Seven Samurai, Yojimbo, Ran) are great films about Samurai culture, they do not stand alone as the only films from Japan about the feudal era nor are they in the b-list of this genre. Tarantino’s film is closer in tone to the Lone Wolf and Cub and Zatoichi films, but he adds the bloodiness of the films of Kinji Fukasaku whose recent film Battle Royale (based on the book of the same name) is a brutal combination of Lord of the Flies and the Survivor television show. One need only watch a few Sonny Chiba (who stars in Kill Bill and is referenced in True Romance) films to understand that Japan, like America, has an appetite for graphic violence. You cannot claim that a film is a vulgar distortion of a culture based on a case study, a more random sample is needed. I think that if Professor Hibbs takes a random sample of Japanese cinema post 1970, he will find more Hanzo the Blade than Throne of Blood.

Typical of Tarantino, any celebration requires examples of a genre’s influence on Western film. So we have a perverted “Charlie's Angels,” called the DiVAs, based on the Five Deadly Venoms by the Shaw Brothers. We have the exaggerated camera use similar to Sergio Leone used in the fight scene between Uma Thurman and Lucy Liu (the snow covered ground of which directly references the final fight in Chushingura). Tarantino gives us the Tokyo of Black Rain and Godzilla visually reminiscent of the Los Angeles of Blade Runner. We hear the theme song to The Green Hornet, and Ironsides, and Uma Thurman dressed like Bruce Lee in Game of Death. Through his director’s eye the audience sees the way Western movies, largely b-movies, have influenced Japanese b-movies, which have in turn influenced Western b-movies. We are presented with a dialogue, not a distortion, between two arguably vulgar cultural representations of the action genre.

The Last Samurai is more difficult to defend from Professor Hibbs’ criticism. While the film is infinitely less vulgar than Kill Bill, Edward Zwick appears to be imitating rather than celebrating what he thinks a film about feudal Japan should look like. The palette is reminiscent of Ran as is the tragic nature of its Japanese protagonist. The Last Samurai isn’t a film about feudal Japan, rather it is a film about how an American reacts and views feudal Japan. The framing device makes it apparent that we are watching the memories of an American Civil War veteran struggling to understand Japanese culture. The director has the difficult task of combining genre and cultural messages. How do you balance the need to show both Western and Eastern concepts of military virtue? How do you do this through the eyes of a character who has forgotten Classical virtue and is a product of Machiavellian prudential virtue?

The conflicts for Cruise’s character prevent the director from fully utilizing the Japanese cultural setting and so he abbreviates it. There are moments in the film when Cruise’s character is given advice from the Book of Five Rings a classic samurai text. The advice given him to him regarding sword fighting mirror advice from the 2nd chapter of the Hagakure (published in 1716 at a time when Japan’s Samurai class had experienced 100 years of relative peace), “There is surely nothing other than the single purpose of the present moment. A man's whole life is a succession of moment after moment. If one fully understands the present moment, there will be nothing else to do, and nothing else to pursue. Live being true to the single purpose of the moment.” The Last Samurai converts the advice into a physical representation during one particular duel between Cruise and a number of ruffians. The camera’s eye captures a perfect combination of single-minded concentration and void.

In the end though, these arguments regarding the merits of Kill Bill and The Last Samurai as examples of Western art encountering Japanese art may be unconvincing to the viewer who might believe that these films represent how we have come to “prefer sorrow over pain, suffering over peace.” To that viewer I can only offer the following.

My first example is one of hope. It is the moment in The Last Samurai when Katsumoto tells Nathan Algren that one could do worse than to spend one’s life looking for the perfect blossom. In this moment, we are told that the pursuit of beauty is a better profession than the pursuit of war.

The second example is one of caution, for it shows that man’s love of pain and suffering over peace isn’t a new one. It is a quote from the 10th chapter of the Hagakure, “If you cut a face lengthwise, urinate on it, and trample on it with straw sandals, it is said that the skin will come off. This was heard by the priest Gyojaku when he was in Kyoto. It is information to be treasured.”

If the first moment is merely a pretentious effort to seem profound, maybe we truly have abandoned the pursuit of a summum bonum. I dread a world in which it is “not the natural sweetness of living but the terrors of death [that] make us cling to life.”