Broken compass
I was intrigued, and a little bemused, to read local reviewers' take on two recently released films, Broken Flowers and Good Night, And Good Luck.
If I read into them right, the first was a tour de force and the latter a smart but culturally irrelevant piece of didacticism that appeals to leftish critics allied to journalistic mores - or the reverse, perhaps.
I've followed Jim Jarmusch's odd writer-director trail since Stranger Than Paradise in the early 80s. His films are usually slight and slow, and increasingly slick, but make a more profound impression than they should because of their creator's weirdo sensibility, visual nous and cast of convincing, if thin-sliced kooks. Broken Flowers, however, left me decidedly lukewarm.
Bill Murray's faded, jaded Don Juan is about as believable as a dot-com genius. You can easily see the appeal of his louche, amusing counterpart in Lost in Translation. But his classical music-loving ex-tech whizz Don Johnston (tee bloody hee) has been dialled down to coma level. The women this bag of inert gas tries to probe for clues about a possible son seem, with the glaring exception of Sharon Stone, to be the inhabitants of some white shoe wearer's black book which should have been binned years ago. A few rare bright, inventive moments can't save this piece of flimsiness from seeming much longer than its 106 minutes.
George Clooney at least tries to do something serious and smart with Good Night. It'll have niche appeal, sure, but better the occasional work that casts an uncompromising Klieg light on our shaky democratic apparatus, and I include the media in this, than somnambulates through whimsy.
POSTSCRIPT
I've just found this quote from Pauline Kael about Stranger than Paradise: To think it "was a knockout of a movie you'd have to tune in to its minimalism so passively that you lowered your expectations. The film is so hemmed in that it has the feel of a mousy Eastern European comedy; it's like a comedy of sensory deprivation."
If I read into them right, the first was a tour de force and the latter a smart but culturally irrelevant piece of didacticism that appeals to leftish critics allied to journalistic mores - or the reverse, perhaps.
I've followed Jim Jarmusch's odd writer-director trail since Stranger Than Paradise in the early 80s. His films are usually slight and slow, and increasingly slick, but make a more profound impression than they should because of their creator's weirdo sensibility, visual nous and cast of convincing, if thin-sliced kooks. Broken Flowers, however, left me decidedly lukewarm.
Bill Murray's faded, jaded Don Juan is about as believable as a dot-com genius. You can easily see the appeal of his louche, amusing counterpart in Lost in Translation. But his classical music-loving ex-tech whizz Don Johnston (tee bloody hee) has been dialled down to coma level. The women this bag of inert gas tries to probe for clues about a possible son seem, with the glaring exception of Sharon Stone, to be the inhabitants of some white shoe wearer's black book which should have been binned years ago. A few rare bright, inventive moments can't save this piece of flimsiness from seeming much longer than its 106 minutes.
George Clooney at least tries to do something serious and smart with Good Night. It'll have niche appeal, sure, but better the occasional work that casts an uncompromising Klieg light on our shaky democratic apparatus, and I include the media in this, than somnambulates through whimsy.
POSTSCRIPT
I've just found this quote from Pauline Kael about Stranger than Paradise: To think it "was a knockout of a movie you'd have to tune in to its minimalism so passively that you lowered your expectations. The film is so hemmed in that it has the feel of a mousy Eastern European comedy; it's like a comedy of sensory deprivation."
posted by Mark Broatch at 12:11 PM
3 Comments:
Bill Murray has obviously reached some sort of professional apogee where he is no longer directed, he just shows up and cops the cheques for *not* acting... and I don't mean in the Mike Leigh sense of naturalism, I mean the guy just refuses to act/emote/whatever.
You see parallels in the other arts where authors are no longer subject to editing, and not just because publishing houses no longer employ them (Umberto Eco, et al), and also in Hollywood where directors get to make 3hr $200 mill 'epics' that are, really, pompous monuments to their intellectual vapidity...
Ed
Ed: interesting analysis. But I think Murray may just be type cast at this stage.
Director-General: Totally concur. As for Broken Flowers, I'm not sure if I am included in the "local reviewers" group you have read), but a copy (has appeared in print) of the review is here. Far more harsh than anything I've read yet as this sort of movie and director is beguiling to the wankier types of reviewers.
Indeed, Ed. Why have editors when you have money mills like JK Rowling? I blame directors being entranced by Murray's less-is-moreism.
Perhaps he'll end up like Brando as you suggest, being paid for just turning up.
You certainly can't be accused of buying into wankery, Tim. I am not immune from the odd moment of wankery myself, though, and will probably indulge myself when I rejoin the ranks of paid reviewers this year. Not tempted this time.
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home