Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (USA, 2005, Shane Black) AKA Love Me Deadly
My review for this film is up at Apollo Guide, but I have a few additional thoughts. Consider this portion my version of the director's cut. At first, I struggled with the concern that Kiss Kiss Bang Bang lacks a firm sense of raison d’etre. Why here and why now? Noir films depicted a post-war world full of fears and paranoias about the role of men in a world suddenly populated by liberated women, and the role of America in a world apparently falling head over heels in love with communism. Plus, there was that whole atomic bomb imminent self-destruction thing. So, I wondered, why does Kiss Kiss Bang Bang choose contemporary LA as a setting for this film noir “pomage” (parody+homage)? It turns out it is possible that the film’s purpose is revealed in what I initially saw as the film’s half-hearted stabs at social relevance through the sexual abuse/incest angle. When Harry commented that perhaps somebody picked up and shook the American blanket , and all the normal ones on the east coast were able to hold on while the rest, who had been diddled by Uncle Charley or suffered some other form traumatic abuse, ended up in Hollywood, it feels as if Black is edging towards a Theme here. Still, at first, I thought that these moments were mostly for show, and a few grim laughs in the film’s darkly amusing party scenes, because there is a moment near the film’s end when a central character delivers a slap down of an ancient sexual perpetrator that feels particularly unearned. But this all might be part of Black’s own commentary on the damaged nature of those attracted to the lights of Hollywood, hoping to find something in those lime lights to ease the terrible pains that chased them there. And perhaps Black is attacking the incestuous nature of doing business in the Hollywood system, and the beat down of the aged pervert at film’s end is a metaphorical smack down of the cruelty exhibited by ancient studio suits towards the weak and the fragile who come to this company town in hopes of finding a cure for what ails them. That Black, who is making his directorial debut two full decades after his breakthrough screenplay for Lethal Weapon, and who has struggled to find work, last seeing a screenplay produced nearly a decade ago, would choose to wedge such a commentary into his film is intriguing, though I admit that this risks stretching the thesis to the point at which it is so thin it no longer takes material form and floats off into the blog-o-sphere, but I’m willing to risk it. It might also help to explain why he is finding the studio’s recalcitrant about supporting his film with a meaningful and dedicated advertising campaign. Then again, you’d have to give the folks who make these decisions an awful lot of credit for being able to see this kind of subtext, when the reality is they probably are simply unsure how to market a film this violent, caustic and funny.
Score: 79/100
Wherein bon vivant Ben Livant and I (Dan Jardine) speak our minds about movies, mostly.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Monday, November 07, 2005
Shopgirl (USA, 2005, Tucker) AKA Lost in Oblivion
Yawn. Shopgirl is everything you might fear a film translated from the novella of a Hollywood celebrity might be. Self-conscious, hollow and dull. Any film that is going to return to that singularly over-worn garment of the May/October romance had better be bringing something more to the festivities than this thread-bare offering. At least Lost in Translation had an exotic location, as well as stylistic flourishes borne of Coppola’s riffing on her mentors, like Jean-Luc Godard and Wong Kar-Wai, and a pair of interesting performances, led by the delicate comic turn of Bill Murray, to to recommend it.
By comparision, what does Shopgirl have? Claire Danes (as Mirabelle), who is, to give her some credit, much more affecting and appealing here than in the last couple of films I’ve seen her in, a few pretty shots of the stars, and a male lead (Steve Martin--as Ray Porter--adapted his own novella. Having not read it, I can only hope he did so poorly) so cold and aloof that it is almost impossible to understand what, other than money, attracts this woman to him. There is very little attempt made to put these characters into a plausible, living framework–friends or therapists are invented as momentary audiences whenever the leads need someone to talk to, then are quickly discarded. And just how does Steve Martin make his millions? And what of Mirabelle’s depression? Is this meant to be a symptom of her disillusionment with the world or simply a realistic sign of some kind of chemical imbalance? It’s never made clear–and Jason Schwartzmann is almost criminally neglected in his thankless role as the goofy third wheel. Director Anand Tucker, whose previous theatrical release was 1998s Hilary and Jackie, fails to get to the nut of the issues raised—of all the available girls at Sak’s why does Ray pursue the titular character, only to rather callously discard her? Is he really only in it for the sex? His character is so inscrutable it is hard to know if he has a heart, or is merely another dick with a bankroll. And atop this shallow confection sits a score which I had hoped would act as an ironic counterpoint to a whimsical tale, but which instead proves,Not that I was particularly enamoured of the film. Indeed, it struck me as being a particularly thin bit of gruel. A film that is going to return to that singularly over-worn garment of the May/October romance had better be bringing something more to the festivities than this thread-bare offering. At least Lost in Translation had an exotic location, as well as stylistic flourishes borne of Coppola’s riffing on her mentors, like Jean-Luc Godard and Wong Kar-Wai, and a pair of interesting performances, led by delicate comedy of Bill Murray, to to recommend it.
By comparision, what does Shopgirl have? Claire Danes (as Mirabelle), who is, to give her some credit, much more affecting and appealing here than in the last couple of films I’ve seen her in, a few pretty shots of the stars, and a male lead (Steve Martin as Ray Porter) so cold and aloof that it is almost impossible to understand what, other than money, attracts this woman to him. There is very little attempt made to put these characters into a plausible, living framework–friends or therapists are invented as momentary audiences whenever the leads need someone to talk to, then are quickly discarded. And just how does Steve Martin make his millions? And what of Mirabelle’s depression? Is this meant to be a symptom of her disillusionment with the world or simply a realistic sign of some kind of chemical imbalance? It’s never made clear–and Jason Schwartzmann is almost criminally neglected in his thankless role as the goofy third wheel. Director Anand Tucker, whose previous theatrical release was 1998s Hilary and Jackie, fails to get to the nut of the issues raised—of all the available girls at Sak’s why does Ray pursue the titular character, only to rather callously discard her? Is he really only in it for the sex? His character is so inscrutable it is hard to know if he has a heart, or is merely another dick with a bankroll. And gliding atop this shallow confection is a score that sweeps and whoops with an overwrought and half-baked self-awareness that I had originally hoped would stand in ironic counterpoint to a whimsically-told tale. It’s pretty clear that the film is trying to say something distinctive and insightful about this Spring-Fall relationship, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is.
How very disappointing, and on so many counts.
ore: 54/100
Yawn. Shopgirl is everything you might fear a film translated from the novella of a Hollywood celebrity might be. Self-conscious, hollow and dull. Any film that is going to return to that singularly over-worn garment of the May/October romance had better be bringing something more to the festivities than this thread-bare offering. At least Lost in Translation had an exotic location, as well as stylistic flourishes borne of Coppola’s riffing on her mentors, like Jean-Luc Godard and Wong Kar-Wai, and a pair of interesting performances, led by the delicate comic turn of Bill Murray, to to recommend it.
By comparision, what does Shopgirl have? Claire Danes (as Mirabelle), who is, to give her some credit, much more affecting and appealing here than in the last couple of films I’ve seen her in, a few pretty shots of the stars, and a male lead (Steve Martin--as Ray Porter--adapted his own novella. Having not read it, I can only hope he did so poorly) so cold and aloof that it is almost impossible to understand what, other than money, attracts this woman to him. There is very little attempt made to put these characters into a plausible, living framework–friends or therapists are invented as momentary audiences whenever the leads need someone to talk to, then are quickly discarded. And just how does Steve Martin make his millions? And what of Mirabelle’s depression? Is this meant to be a symptom of her disillusionment with the world or simply a realistic sign of some kind of chemical imbalance? It’s never made clear–and Jason Schwartzmann is almost criminally neglected in his thankless role as the goofy third wheel. Director Anand Tucker, whose previous theatrical release was 1998s Hilary and Jackie, fails to get to the nut of the issues raised—of all the available girls at Sak’s why does Ray pursue the titular character, only to rather callously discard her? Is he really only in it for the sex? His character is so inscrutable it is hard to know if he has a heart, or is merely another dick with a bankroll. And atop this shallow confection sits a score which I had hoped would act as an ironic counterpoint to a whimsical tale, but which instead proves,Not that I was particularly enamoured of the film. Indeed, it struck me as being a particularly thin bit of gruel. A film that is going to return to that singularly over-worn garment of the May/October romance had better be bringing something more to the festivities than this thread-bare offering. At least Lost in Translation had an exotic location, as well as stylistic flourishes borne of Coppola’s riffing on her mentors, like Jean-Luc Godard and Wong Kar-Wai, and a pair of interesting performances, led by delicate comedy of Bill Murray, to to recommend it.
By comparision, what does Shopgirl have? Claire Danes (as Mirabelle), who is, to give her some credit, much more affecting and appealing here than in the last couple of films I’ve seen her in, a few pretty shots of the stars, and a male lead (Steve Martin as Ray Porter) so cold and aloof that it is almost impossible to understand what, other than money, attracts this woman to him. There is very little attempt made to put these characters into a plausible, living framework–friends or therapists are invented as momentary audiences whenever the leads need someone to talk to, then are quickly discarded. And just how does Steve Martin make his millions? And what of Mirabelle’s depression? Is this meant to be a symptom of her disillusionment with the world or simply a realistic sign of some kind of chemical imbalance? It’s never made clear–and Jason Schwartzmann is almost criminally neglected in his thankless role as the goofy third wheel. Director Anand Tucker, whose previous theatrical release was 1998s Hilary and Jackie, fails to get to the nut of the issues raised—of all the available girls at Sak’s why does Ray pursue the titular character, only to rather callously discard her? Is he really only in it for the sex? His character is so inscrutable it is hard to know if he has a heart, or is merely another dick with a bankroll. And gliding atop this shallow confection is a score that sweeps and whoops with an overwrought and half-baked self-awareness that I had originally hoped would stand in ironic counterpoint to a whimsically-told tale. It’s pretty clear that the film is trying to say something distinctive and insightful about this Spring-Fall relationship, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is.
How very disappointing, and on so many counts.
ore: 54/100
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