Tag Archives: comedy

June 25, 2013

27. Boogie Nights

By kaneseligsohn

Boogie Nights_posterSmiley Rating:

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Boogie Nights (Paul Thomas Anderson, 1997) is a bitingly funny, boldly crafted melodrama that insists less is not more – more is more.  As in, thirteen inches more.  As in, more characters.  More storylines.  More virtuosic camera moves.  More sex.  More nudity.  More passion.  More grit.  More drama.  More vulgarity.  More drugs.  More everything.  The result is a lengthy, highly ambitious project that unfolds like a Robert Altman film, interweaving a myriad of characters and storylines so that they compliment the material in a comparative and contrasting manner.  This keen approach echoes the half & half structure and provides insightful commentary on themes regarding family and sexuality.

That “family” happens to be a disparate group of filmmakers and artists (or pornographers and porn-stars, if you prefer) who were somehow lucky enough to find each other in the seedy underbelly of the porn world during the late 70’s and early 80’s.  These dysfunctional characters are introduced with a feverish pizazz in an opening that demonstrably puts the “fun” in funky.  This dazzling sequence establishes the environment in such a captivating way that it allows the audience to fully immerse itself in this unsavory, unsettling world.

Helping these matters are the incredible performances lent by the stellar cast, all melding perfectly in their roles.  These memorable portrayals are offered by Burt Reynolds; John C. Reilly; Don Cheadle; Heather Graham; William H. Macy; Julianne Moore; Philip Seymour Hoffman; Alfred Molina; Mark Wahlberg (and many more).  Now, if that sounds like a lot of characters and a lot of well-respected actors, that’s because it is.  Not only that, but they all relish their moments on-screen and turn this eclectic group of what could have been quirky caricatures, into fully developed human beings with depth and complexity.

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Speaking of depth, it is rumored that some of the sex in this film wasn’t exactly “acted.”  In other words, the talent was sometimes totally fucking on-screen.  Like, for real, real.  (Talk about method acting!)  Whether that rumor is based in truth or not is a moot point, because the otherwise brutally honest approach permeates the entire film and the consequence is a certain rawness that may alienate some viewers.  But let’s face it.  Boogie Nights is about porn.  So if nudity, drugs, and vulgarity offend you, then this movie wouldn’t be appropriate regardless of what was shown on-screen or how real the sex was.

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However, if you are able to look past the sex, what awaits you is some very effective melodrama, which contrasts sharply with a steady stream of humor.  The result is a synthesis that is sometimes uneven, but is ultimately held together by a smart score and an exhilarating soundtrack.  This clashing of unlikely elements (the melodrama and the comedy) is further grounded by the forceful performances as aforementioned, and the self-assured direction provided by Paul Thomas Anderson.  It is easy to imagine this all going wrong if it were in lesser hands, especially when considering Boogie Nights doesn’t depend on an overly explicit plot to move the action forward.  Rather, it appears to be character-driven, giving Anderson the opportunity to take his time in developing this myriad of characters and the world in which they reside.  Conversely, this sometimes makes for a slower, more leisurely pace, which may turn off some impatient viewers.  This is precisely why the captivating opening sequence is so vitally important, because it gives the audience a reason to be patient.  Without it, the audience would not be as forgiving, and would possibly be dazed and confused by the start of the second act.  But this is not the case, and while the story sometimes feels stagnant, it is always steadily thrusting forward and the end satisfyingly pays off the patience of the viewer.

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Which brings me to the inflammatory punctuation that brings Boogie Nights to a close.  Of course what I’m talking about is the on-screen reveal of that “one special thing” Dirk Diggler was blessed with.  I mentioned that the end is satisfying, but I feel ambivalent to whether this shocking reveal is the best way to finish off the movie.  In fact, I wonder if the less is more approach would have been more effective here.  After all, some things that are left off-screen make for an even more vivid image in the mind.  I don’t know.  Maybe the shock-factor is the suitable pay-off for a movie that is otherwise raw and unflinching.  In this case, perhaps more IS more.

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November 8, 2012

24. The Big Lebowski

By kaneseligsohn

Smiley Rating:

 

The Big Lebowski (Joel & Ethan Coen, 1998) is a ramblin’, complex, ambitious “who-dun-it?” story, in which the answer is ultimately revealed as: nobody.  Nobody dun did it.  Like the Nihilists in this movie, the plot essentially amounts to nothing.  In this Hitchcockian sort of way, the entire plot is merely an excuse to experiment with all of these outrageous characters, most notably, of course, is The Dude, played awesomely by Jeff Bridges.  And while The Big Lebowski feels like a convoluted, plot-heavy film— with “lots of ins, lots of outs”— it’s actually more akin to an intimately detailed character study.

That character, The Dude, closely resembles the tumbling tumbleweed shown in the opening prelude, as he is so easily blown from one escalating plot point to the next, with each subsequent episode mounting in absurdity, containing more outlandish characters, and displaying an increased amount of preposterous visuals.  This tumbling tumbleweed of an apathetic character is exemplified in his own motto: “fuck it,” as well as the place in which the story takes place— Los Angeles.  The Dude is Los Angeles and Los Angeles is The Dude.  What’s most bitingly ironic about this lazy, pacified characterization is that the entire crux of the story depends on The Dude reacting to the inciting incident in a way that defies his very own ethos.

In other words, because of the persuasive abilities of his outspoken friend Walter, The Dude breaks with his usual pacified mentality, and decides to take a stand against what he perceives to be unfair, unchecked aggression.  After all, they peed on his fucking rug!  Adding to this irony, of course, are all of the disastrous, unintended consequences of taking said action, which could have been avoided if The Dude were only to stick to his original “fuck it” motto.  All’s he had to do was let it be, and cope with a pee-stained rug.

But alas, that is not what happened, and I get the feeling— based on the movie’s popularity and cult following— that the story could have been just about anything, and what makes this material work are the supremely detailed characterizations of it’s many zany characters.  I mean, just take John Turturro’s “Jesus” character, for example.  This character is totally ludicrous, and is entirely irrelevant to the actual plot of the story.  He doesn’t push the story forward; instead, like so many other moments in The Big Lebowski, he is simply a digression.  Even so, because the details are as specific and peculiar as they are, and because the casting and performances are so spot-on, these moments and characters not only work, but they end up being some of the most effective, memorable, entertaining parts of the entire film.  Speaking of memorable, the screenplay penned by the Coen’s is so smart, and is full of so many quotable lines of dialogue you will need to drink a spiked “White Russian” just to get them out of your head (not that you would want to).

But putting aside all of the kooky madness The Big Lebowski has to offer, what ends up rising to the top is an hallucinatory morality tale about power, perceived power, and using that power for leverage.  What’s interesting about this dynamic, particularly the way it is framed in this movie, is that the perceived power— whether the source is money, sex, or violence— is merely that: a perceived power.  An illusion.  Its only power if the so-called “lesser” person agrees to give it power.  By feeding it.  And I get the impression that the Coen’s are suggesting that meeting an aggressive act with an aggressive act is what feeds it.  Or, like I mentioned earlier, The Dude’s troubles could all have been avoided if only he were to ABIDE by his original pacifist worldview and life-engrossing motto: “Fuck it, let’s go bowling.”

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October 23, 2012

23. Big Fish

By kaneseligsohn

Smiley Rating:

Big Fish (Tim Burton, 2003) is about the importance of imaginative storytelling, and how the quality of one’s storytelling actually correlates to the quality of one’s life.  In doing so, it negates the importance of “fiction” or “non-fiction,” “fact” or “non-fact,” and replaces it with subjective interpretation.  In other words, whether what a person says is a truth (fact) or a lie (fiction) is totally irrelevant, because the very spouting of said words more accurately reflects the person and how he views the world, than whether those words are legitimately true or not.

Take any work of fiction, for example.  Say, James Cameron’s Avatar.  By all means, none of what happens in that movie is literally “true” or “real.”  It’s all made up.  It’s a lie.  It’s a fiction.  It’s a story.  But putting that aside (because it’s irrelevant), what you actually get from that subtext is a crystal clear understanding of what James Cameron’s perspective on the real, actual world is.  That, regardless of what happened to him in his real life, the aggregate of which and his interpretation thereof, led him to the viewpoint that nature is beautiful and should be loved, respected, and salvaged before it’s too late.  Whether you agree with that perspective or think it’s “true” or not is irrelevant, because what matters, and what’s undeniable, is that that perspective exists.

To make myself clear, let’s consider a different hypothetical.  Imagine a young child experiences something tragic.  He loses a parent, or a sibling, or a friend.  Or maybe he suffers a really awful injury.  It’s something tragic.  It’s something we all fear.  Now, how that child ultimately deals with that tragedy is what will become a story he tells for the rest of his life.  Indeed it will be his life.  Because just like it says in this movie: “you tell your stories so many times, you become the stories.”  So, maybe that child’s story is grim and full of ruin and he feels like he can’t overcome it.  This leads to relationship problems and deep sociological issues.  Maybe he turns to drugs or violence or something worse.  Conversely, maybe he tells a different story.  An imaginative, uplifting story in which he learned a vital life lesson, and it motivated him positively and has helped shape who he is today.  Each is a story, and each would reflect a drastically different outcome, but that outcome isn’t dependent on facts, rather, how well that person can tell his story.

I mentioned “fear” just a bit ago, and another important element in Big Fish is the way fearlessness is rewarded.  Ed Bloom’s character (Ewan McGregor, Albert Finney) in particular, is totally fearless.  He confronts the big, scary, bad giant (played memorably by Matthew McGrory), fearless.  He approaches the nasty, frightening one-eyed witch (Helena Bonham Carter), fearless.  He navigates the ominous dangerous unknown trail, fearless.  On and on Ed Bloom operates devoid of fear, and every time he is rewarded for it.  As it turns out, the big bad scary giant isn’t a bad scary giant at all, but the gentlest of humans that you could ever imagine (giant or otherwise).  The one-eyed witch isn’t nasty or frightening, but wise and kind and helpful.  The trail isn’t dangerous or ominous; it’s just full of life with a greener, brighter destination waiting at the end of it.  All of this, not because Ed Bloom is fearless, but because he knows there is no such thing as fear.  It’s an illusion.  It’s a story.  Like this movie, fear is a tall-tale.  But so is your life, so tell it.  Tell it fearlessly, and tell it well, and you will be rewarded too.

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October 21, 2012

22. Best In Show

By kaneseligsohn

Smiley Rating:

Have you ever seen that zany Errol Morris documentary, Gates of Heaven, the one about the pet cemetery and the people who have their pets buried there?  Well, if you haven’t seen it, and if you like the documentary format in particular, you might want to check it out.  But the actual reason why I mention that movie is because just like this movie, Best In Show (Christopher Guest, 2000), it’s central theme is coping.  Yes, Best In Show has an extremely amusing context about a colorful cast of character’s entering their dogs in a competition, but underneath that, it’s really about coping.  It’s about people coping with people, mostly, but it’s also about dogs coping with people.  And ironically, how dogs (or any other pets for that matter) allow people to cope more effectively in the first place.  Basically, there’s a lot of coping going on.

And behind all of this coping is the usual cast of brilliant comic actors who always seem to find themselves in Christopher Guest movies.  Jane Lynch is great.  Jennifer Coolidge is great.  Catherine O’Hara is great.  John Michael Higgins is great.  Michael McKean is great.  Parker Posey is great.  They’re all great.  They all have their moments.  Especially Fred Willard who provides a volcanic amount of humor somewhere after the halfway point.  It’s nonstop and it’s hysterical.  “Tell me, do you know the difference between a rectal thermometer and a tongue depressor?”

But there’s a performance here in particular that I wanted to point out, and that is Christopher Guest’s.  While watching Best in Show it occurred to me— and I could be wrong about this— but it occurred to me that he seems to the most chameleon-like of all the actors in this cast.  By that, I mean, he’s consistently the most unrecognizable.  He seems to disappear into his roles slightly more so than the rest, physically speaking.  Which isn’t to say that the other actors don’t play a variety of diverse roles, because they certainly do.  And it also isn’t to say that Christopher Guest is always the funniest character, because he isn’t, and he isn’t in this movie either.  In fact, his character comes off as a bit sad to me.  He’s very likeable.  He’s cordial and he’s nice.  But there’s a visible tinge of loneliness and sadness throughout, especially in the ventriloquist scenes.  I guess you could say he’s coping with loneliness (aren’t we all), and luckily, at the end of the day, he has his dog to cope with.

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October 16, 2012

21. Being John Malkovich

By kaneseligsohn

Smiley Rating:

Right now I’m looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, which is spotty and needs to be cleaned.  Instead of whipping out the Windex, I look past the water spots and examine my hairline, which, by the way, is receding way too quickly.  At least, in my opinion it is.  I look at my nose.  I look at my ears.  I look at my probably unhealthy skin, and at the wrinkles on my forehead and around my eyes…  Fuck…  My gaze then fixes upon my gaze.  My eyes are looking at my eyes.  And I wonder, “am I me?”  Is the voice inside my head legitimately mine?  Or does it belong to a shifty, morose puppeteer pulling at my strings somewhere from within?  If so, how did he get there?  And more importantly, how the fuck do I get him out?  Shit.  Is God a morose puppeteer?  No.  Stop it.  It can’t be.  I’m in control.  I am.

I think I am?

These uncertain philosophical questions regarding the nature of self is what Being John Malkovich (Spike Jonze, 1999) is essentially about.  Take the mind/body problem, for example.  How can the mind— invisible formless matter— be confined and relegated to a single body, a physical, tangible, touchable thing?  Why doesn’t the mind simply just float away?  Does it float away?  Can it float away?  Or is it truly bound to the physical body?  … Is there a physical body?  Look, what I’m trying to ask is this— is the mind a result of the body or is the body a result of the mind?

Perhaps offering an answer to these unanswerable questions, through a sort of hypothetical, bizarre trial and error system, Being John Malkovich demonstrates that the body is indeed the result of the mind.  Or, in other words, you are who you are, despite the physical body in which you reside.  Even if you could crawl through a portal on the seventh-and-a-half floor and into John Malkovich’s body, that wouldn’t change who you quintessentially are.  The body, in time, would simply change to reflect that mind (just as John Malkovich’s body does in this movie).

Deep metaphysical questions aside, what this movie also does is it examines our “15-minutes-of-fame,” reality-TV-obsessed culture.  Why, for example, would someone, anyone, want to change bodies?  I presume it has something to do with looking into the mirror and not liking what you see reflected back at you.  This feeling of inadequacy is inflicted by a superficial, manipulative society that places too much importance on physical appearance, rather than inner appearance (the mind), which as I discussed earlier, is actually what is relevant to who you are.

Speaking of manipulation, one of the more intriguing characters in Being John Malkovich is Catherine Keener’s Maxine, the one character who seems to be in total control the entire time.  She, unlike the others, seems to always get what she wants, either through manipulation or otherwise.  Ironically enough, she is also the only character who doesn’t desire to crawl through the portal and into John Malkovich.  In this way, she is the master puppeteer.  Not in a cynical way necessarily, but because she is the most confident.  She knows who she is, and she accepts it, thusly allowing herself to be open to following through on her instincts.

Now, I’ve spoken a lot so far about metaphysics and strange ethereal ideas, but I should also say this movie is damn funny.  It’s smart as hell, for sure, but more importantly, it’s funny.  It’s funny when John Malkovich crawls into his own portal and is confronted by a world populated by only John Malkovich’s.  “Malkovich, Malkovich?”  “Malkovich.”  It’s funny how Craig Schwartz (John Cusack) takes his profession as a puppeteer so damn seriously.  It’s funny that there is a seventh-and-a-half floor.  It’s funny that one gets spat out onto the New Jersey turnpike once your 15 minutes of being John Malkovich are up.  It’s funny, it’s funny, it’s funny, and who knew philosophy was so full of hilarity?

Well, apparently Charlie Kaufman knew, who, I get the feeling, was making it all up as he went along.  As if he thought of this incredible concept and just dove head first to see where it took him.  This is an admirable, bold way to tackle a screenplay, and while the result is a somewhat uneven journey, it’s also one that is full of laughter, surprises, distinctiveness, wit, and it ultimately leaves you in an unsuspecting place you never expected to be when you first began the journey.  For that, I’m thankful.

Oh.  And disregard that thing I said at the outset about my receding hairline.  I’m actually having a FABULOUS hair-day today.

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October 10, 2012

20. Beginners

By kaneseligsohn

Smiley Rating:

This movie is about one of the most important lessons of all and that is seizing the day.  This movie is quirky.  This movie is quintessentially modern.  This movie is about coming to terms with who you were, who you are, and who you want to be.  This movie is cathartic.  This movie is playfully inventive which reminds me of the French New Wave.  This movie is charming like Melanie Laurent.  This movie is adorable like that Jack Russell.

This movie is emotionally powerful like Christopher Plummer’s Academy Award winning portrayal of a gay man, who, following the death of his wife of 45 years, comes out of the closet at age 75.  This movie is a celebration of life.  This movie is funny like one of those t-shirts that has an ironic slogan written on it.  This movie is about communication, both verbal and nonverbal.  This movie is about how nothing is permanent, how attitudes change, how styles change, and what is considered acceptable and unacceptable changes as well.

This movie is about love.  This movie is about death.  This movie is about life, love, and death, just like a flower represents life, love and death.  This movie is about acceptance.  This movie is full of small intimate details that speak to everyone.  This movie is about seizing the day before it’s too late, which I already said, and I said it again because it’s important.  This movie is about forgiveness.  This movie makes me cry.  This movie makes me smile.  This movie makes me laugh.  This movie is about not knowing what happens next but going for it anyway.  This movie is about the first day of the rest of your life.  This movie is Beginners (Mike Mills, 2010).

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October 2, 2012

16. Art School Confidential

By kaneseligsohn

Smiley Rating:

One of the aspects I admire most about a Terry Zwigoff film— and Art School Confidential (Terry Zwigoff, 2006) in particular— is that they seem to be entirely devoid of pretentiousness.  Well, except for maybe Ghost World, which has some definite quirk to it, and therefore is probably the reason why I like that Zwigoff film the most.  I guess I just prefer pretentiousness in movies… but that’s a different story.  As far as this film goes, there’s no razzle-dazzle photography.  The structure is straightforward and to the point.  It doesn’t attempt to break ground stylistically or otherwise.  It just is what it is, and it doesn’t care what others think.  And that’s not only why this film is endearing, but it also happens to be the underlying message.

Now, whether this film accurately portrays “art school” or not, is beside the point.  What it does do, and this is more important than the context, is it captures the “feeling” and the mind-set of what it might be like to go to “art school.”  Funny enough, it reminds me of this segment I recently saw on the Oprah Winfrey Network, where she was interviewing a high-ranking film executive from Paramount.  One of the more indelible lessons from that interview was about “staying in your own movie.”  By this, they meant that everyone’s life is like a movie, and that each of us is the star actor of that movie, and our director just happens to be God.  But what they stressed most about this metaphor was the importance of “staying in your own movie,” and in a way, that’s exactly what Art School Confidential is about.

Or to put in a slightly less metaphorical way, it’s about finding and expressing your true nature.  It’s about the desire to fit in and the quest of finding that place in which you truly do fit.  Juxtaposed to this, and thus illustrating the point, is an eloquent line of dialogue delivered by Malkovich’s character:  “He’s trying to sing in his own voice using someone else’s vocal chords.”  This, in a nutshell, is every artist’s, and even every human’s dilemma.  Who am I?  Why am I?  And while some may find their true calling rather easily (lucky bastards), most of us will struggle in making this discovery.  The reason for this, I think, reflects what I was saying earlier about “staying in your own movie.”  When we envy other people’s success, and compare ourselves, and get caught up in other people’s lives (or in other peoples’ movies), we get discouraged and lose our way.  When we’re in denial, or have unrealistic expectations, or have flawed motives— we lose our way.  We end up trying to sing with someone else’s vocal chords rather than our own.  In this way, Art School Confidential is a strict order.  That is, “listen.”  Listen to your voice.  Stay in your movie.  Stay on your path.  In the end, you will get to where you need.

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September 24, 2012

14. Annie Hall

By kaneseligsohn

Smiley Rating:

This girl once asked me what my favorite movies were.  I wasn’t prepared at the time to give a substantial list of movies; so instead, I chose to rattle off a bunch of directors’ names that have influenced me.  Truffaut.  Kubrick.  Anderson.  Tarantino.  Lynch.  Jarmusch.  Linklater.  Apatow.  Bergman.  Godard.  Kieslowski.  I’m not sure exactly what names I spouted at the time or if they were impressive, but we ended up talking about Woody Allen.  And in particular, we started talking about Annie Hall (Woody Allen, 1977).  And I remember she asked me, in a very straightforward way: “why do you like it?”  I was completely taken aback by the pointedness of this question, and I hadn’t seen the movie in some time, so I struggled mightily to formulate a satisfying response.  If I were to be asked that same question now, on September 24, 2012, some thirty-five years after the initial release, I would say this:

I like Annie Hall because even after all of those years, and after all the rip offs and imitations, this romantic comedy still somehow comes across as surprisingly fresh, wickedly smart, and extremely experimental.  The disjointed structure and the breaking of the fourth wall, reflects all of those qualities, and more importantly, allows the story to stay fresh no matter how many viewings.  Speaking of fresh, the dialogue is witty almost beyond belief, resulting in too many one-liners to keep track of.  One-liners like, “Hey, don’t knock masturbation – it’s sex with someone I love!”  Or, “My grammy never gave gifts.  She was too busy getting raped by Cossacks.”  Or, “That sex was the most fun I’ve ever had without laughing.”

Adding to the brilliant script is the gritty cinematography offered by the master of darkness, Gordon Willis.  The simple rawness, and the graininess of the film print comments perfectly on the messiness of relationships as well as the setting in which the story takes place (New York).  And while the photography comes off as simple and straightforward, there is actually a lot of movement and some really beautiful, breathtaking compositions.  The fact that this does not intrude on the story or bring too much attention to itself, demonstrates exactly how great a director of photography Gordon Willis actually is.  I often wonder why more comedies don’t aspire to this kind of higher level, photographically speaking.  I’m sure there are many logistical reasons for this, including budgetary restraints, but I would be really interested to see a Judd Apatow-type movie shot by, say, Roger Deakins.

Another timeless, ever-lasting element of Annie Hall is the sizzling chemistry between Woody Allen and Diane Keaton.  They seem perfect for each other.  This palpable energy creates the impression that these two characters are a real couple that has shared real memories.  This, in turn, compliments the way the story unfolds in its hyperactive disjointed manner, which conjures the tone of a casual conversation between two former lovers commiserating about the past.  And just like in real life, these conversations don’t unfold in chronological order, but in chunks of random memories, that remind you of other chunks of memories, that remind you still of other memories.  And despite this disjointedness, I never felt lost, and actually found it rather easy to follow along, which speaks almost entirely to the strength of the transitions between scenes.

But alas, this is a romantic comedy, and therefore it is about love.  In particular, it’s about an island of a character (Alvy Singer), a person who typically shuts himself off from others, but because of this amazing woman (Annie Hall), he is finally able to start to open up, and he even gets a glimpse of true love.  Problem is, it’s too late.  The feeling isn’t mutual.  In this way, I admire how Annie Hall is different from most other romantic comedies.  In most, the love is obvious.  It’s a special feeling one gets when in the presence of their soul mate.  It’s a golden light that emanates, and it’s just a matter of time before they both realize it.  And maybe this “true love” sensation exists in real life, but I think that that’s actually something else.  It’s lust.  Good chemistry.  Kindred spirits, perhaps.  But true love, true love as shown in this movie, is born out of time.  Out of ups and downs.  It happens gradually and it isn’t a specific feeling, it’s something that dawn’s upon you over time.  And most importantly, it’s not guaranteed.  It’s never ever guaranteed.

With that, I’ll go ahead and wrap my impression of the entire movie up with one metaphor.  If Annie Hall were a cupcake, I’d say its foundation would be misanthropy, comedy would be the icing, and sentimentality would be the sprinkles on top.  I have to say, it makes for one hell of an original confection.

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September 17, 2012

13. A Mighty Wind

By kaneseligsohn

Smiley Rating:

Christopher Guest’s movies remind me of a rare, amazing traveling theater troupe whom every now and then reunite to tell a wonderful little gem of a story.  I’d like to call these stories “movies of the theater,” because in a lot of ways they are more like stage-plays than movies.  For one, they are bursting at the seams with excellent performances from a massive ensemble cast (all of whom, by the way, are having so much fun bringing these zany characters to life, you can’t help but have fun too).  These performances are simultaneously over-the-top and constrained at the same time, which sounds like a contradiction, but the very form of “mockumentary” lends itself well to this realistic style of acting approached in a somewhat theatrical way.  Basically, the actors are playing a ridiculous moment, very seriously.  Thusly, the more ridiculous the moment, the more serious they play it, the more hilarious it ends up being.  This phenomenon can be summed up in a single line of dialogue, which is serious, ridiculous, and hilarious all at the same time.  “I’ve come to understand as an adult that there had been abuse in my family, but it was mostly musical in nature.”  Seriously ridiculous.  Ridiculously hilarious.

The other component in A Mighty Wind (Christopher Guest, 2003) that is more akin to a stage-play than a movie is that the story is conveyed almost entirely through dialogue (or song, in this case).  As a result, there is A LOT of talking, which may lead to wandering thoughts and glazed over eyes for some eager viewers.  However, if you manage to listen, really listen, you’ll find yourself being rewarded by laughter more often than not.  True laughter, too.  I’m not talking about a joke in a movie that you know you’re supposed to laugh at, because it’s an obvious joke, and everyone else is laughing, so you chuckle too.  I’m talking about genuinely funny moments that are derived from small, bizarre details that remind you of moments in your own life; human moments that are somehow so funny you can’t help but laugh out loud.

And as far as the story is concerned, A Mighty Wind is simply about a handful of folk bands reuniting and coming together for one last show to honor the recent passing of a pioneer to their beloved folk music.  All of this comes off very natural and unforced, which is a testament to how great a filmmaker Christopher Guest actually is.  The way all of these disparate characters are brought to a cohesive life in what seems like an effortless manner is actually really difficult to do.  On top of that, all of the music is really well done and is full of joyous life.  Yes, it’s folk music, but it’s catchy as heck, sometimes funny, and at it’s best is emotionally impactful.

Ultimately, A Mighty Wind is a bittersweet story about characters desperately trying to reconcile their past, while coming to terms with who they are in the present.  Some succeed.  Some don’t.  It reminds me of that Bob Dylan song, “The Times They Are a-Changin.’”  In that you can clutch onto the past as ferociously as you’d like, but it is no contest for the wind that blows the sands of time, for it is a mighty wind indeed.

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September 16, 2012

12. American Pie

By kaneseligsohn

Smiley Rating:

If Porky’s (Bob Clark, 1982) date-raped The Graduate (Mike Nichols, 1967) and they had babies, American Pie (Paul Weitz, 1999) would be the plaid wearing, socially awkward, perverted, 17-year-old son, who lacks self confidence, receives middling to average grades, and wants nothing more than to lose his virginity.  On top of that, he masturbates too much, he is humiliated day in and day out, and he displays absolutely zero tact when it comes to communicating with the opposite sex.  Luckily, he makes us laugh.

Yes, indeed, American Pie makes us laugh.  We laugh because it’s shocking.  We laugh because it’s gross.  And most of all, we laugh because it’s awkward.   You know, like, the awkwardness of losing one’s virginity or asking someone to prom.  This universal sentiment of humility is expressed most effectively in the one-on-one scenes between father (Eugene Levy) and son (Jason Biggs).  In these scenes, these two guys are completely and utterly inept at communicating with each other about sex, and the result is seat-squirming hilarity.  For a moment, I wonder if women (mothers/daughters) have the same sort of communicative issues, but my wonderment ends quickly as I imagine these early sex-talks between parent and child are awkward for all involved, regardless of gender.  I suppose this sort of “prudeness” is a cultural thing, rather than a gender thing.  That being said, I just realized that maybe these scenes were the most effective purely because Eugene Levy and Jason Biggs are by far the most superior actors in the movie, and therefore have the best comedic chemistry.

Conversely, the biggest flaw in American Pie is that nothing is really at stake.  Except for maybe a moment of humiliation or a slight strike against the ego, these characters seem to have nothing to lose… except for their virginity.  Perhaps something as simple as a small money wager would have increased the suspense, but when considering the galore of quotable lines, the satisfying conclusion, and the handful of outrageous iconic moments, I’d say this flaw is minimal and worth over-looking.

I’ll end with an observation:  I was a horny 16-year-old going on 17 when this movie was first released, so naturally, American Pie spoke to me.  I’ve seen it many times since then, and while it is still enjoyable, I can’t honestly say that it gets better with age.  Unlike sex, the first time was hands down the most entertaining.  Which brings me to the original tagline, a line that speaks to why this film in particular was successful and also the reason why I believe the sequels to this franchise have all but completely failed.  That is, “There’s something about your first piece.”  Yes.  There most certainly is.

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