Your mind is the scene of the crime. Too bad the crime is insufferable boredom.

The biggest deception of Inception is the perception that it’s an exception to the infection of abomination that is the summer movie-going season. If this glib conjugation is a cause for celebration, then you might find elation in the pretension

If, however, you find that paragraph a pointless simulation of masturbation, then congratulations, because your perceptions are most astute. Trying to find substance in Inception is as difficult as explaining one of your dreams to a complete stranger. It would take an exceptionally long time explain why your high school gym teacher running laps with your boss in your childhood living room is so emotionally perplexing. You can talk until you’re blue in the face, and you’ll only succeed in boring your companion to tears.

Leonardo DiCaprio recycles his pinched-face squint from Shutter Island as Cobb, the leader of a high-tech gang of thieves who can invade your dreams to steal your innermost thoughts. The jobs have been growing progressively more dangerous, as a nasty secret deep in Cobb’s unconscious threatens to overwhelm the dream worlds his crews must work in. His team are a bunch of blank-faced automatons of the model that populate dreams – the ethnic guy, the old guy, and the slicked back hair of Joseph Gordon-Levitt. The flat, low-contrast cinematography is just as featureless, doing nothing to differentiate between dreams and reality while robbing both worlds of any sense of wonder.

Who's who in "Inception"? Abandon all Hope, ye who would differentiate here.

See More Inception Publicity Still at IGN.com

After a job goes horribly wrong, Cobb gets the ultimatum that no cinematic thief can refuse – one last job that will wipe the slate clean and let him leave the criminal life behind. His enigmatically wealthy sponsor wants Cobb to plant an idea in the mind of a business rival, however the dream-world rules mean that such a task is impossible.

To accomplish the impossible first requires a half-hour of exposition. Then Cobb recruits Ariadne (Ellen Page), a young architectural student who needs to wander around aimlessly, asking questions to clarify the first round of exposition. Once she seems to understand the rules of dream construction, the film tasks her with standing around wide-eyed to ask more questions because once the actual action begins, nothing that she learned is ever used again. Then most of the exposition is rendered moot because there’s an entirely different set of rules and dangers that they must navigate once the bullets start flying. All this so Cobb can return home to some children he can’t remember and a multi-billionaire can get a global monopoly in some industry that doesn’t seem to matter.

Dreams are heady stuff for cinema, but they remain largely the province of esoteric artists like Lynch and Kubrick. True dreams are too personal and inexplicable for a medium as crass as the summer blockbuster. Christopher Nolan isn’t an artist, he’s a mechanic. For a movie set inside layers of dreams, there’s barely a recognizable human emotion on display, and never a pause to consider the connection between dreams and reality. When Cobb and Ariadne take one of their expository wanders through the Parisian streets of Cobb’s subconscious, Nolan has a scene that is comprised of these loaded philosophical concepts:

* Ariadne, the Greek goddess of myth who helped Theseus escape the labyrinth of the Minotaur.

* The process of dreaming.

* Physical manifestations of Cobb’s subconscious

* The infinite self-reflection of a hall of mirrors.

A director with the capacity for wonder could have taken half of those elements and created a moment of contemplation. A skilled director would have posed a question that makes the audience wonder about their own existence. Nolan turns the moment into a pointless bit of exposition, and a plot device to walk Cobb and Ariadne from point A to point B. Then after demonstrating her grasp of world-bending abilities, she’s called on to do nothing more complex then designing the lobby bar of a W hotel.

It’s a navel-gazing hall of mirrors, only they’re looking at nothing. Nolan doesn’t have anything to say, and he wraps his hollow, clockwork trickery around a core of emptiness. There’s more philosophy to be found in dismantling a cheap watch, because even at a dead stop, the cheap watch can be bothered to tell you the time twice a day.

A much more appropriate reference of Greek myth is Narcissus – the hunter who grew so enamored of his own image that he ignored the rest of the world until he wasted away. Right from the get-go, Inception confuses complexity with emotionally engaging mystery. In the first five minutes, Cobb washes up on a beach, sees some mysterious kids, then is escorted into a mysterious room where he eats mysterious gruel while an old man mumbles something mysterious about a mysterious man he remembers from a mysterious adventure many years ago while a mysterious top spins. Then the film arbitrarily leaps to the same mysterious fortress, only at a different time where more mysterious stuff happens. Then more mysterious stuff happens.

Compare the tedium of Inception to the equally complicated exposition of The Matrix. In between the complicated bits of setup, The Matrix manages to deploy shock and awe to engage the audience. The bullet time acrobatics of Trinity’s first astonishing leap pulls the audience in closer, creating a sense of wonder at seeing the impossible come to life. The best Inception can muster are cryptic mumbles about the inexplicable, and a shadowy silhouette of Cobb as water floods a room.

Inception isn’t a movie about dreams, it’s a movie about paradoxes. It’s overlong but rushed. It’s too loud, but constantly mumbling. It’s constructed with architectural precision, but narratively shapeless. It’s about worlds nested within worlds, but spatially incoherent. Perhaps the biggest paradox is that it’s a $200 million dollar movie that is built like a heavyweight but evaporates from memory exactly like a dream.

]]> http://www.goodisthenewbad.com/review-inception-326.htm/feed 1 http://www.goodisthenewbad.com/review-the-white-ribbon-314.htm http://www.goodisthenewbad.com/review-the-white-ribbon-314.htm#comments Sat, 13 Mar 2010 01:13:46 +0000 Jeffrey Williams http://www.goodisthenewbad.com/?p=314 Das Weisse Band, with the subtitle “In which we shall discuss the glorious enlightenment that a director of cinema shall bequeath unto an audience]]> I shall title this review Das Weisse Band, with the subtitle “In which we shall discuss the glorious enlightenment that a director of cinema shall bequeath unto an audience, and the manner in which said audience shall receive that most holy golden gift, even if it shall be locked up tightly and largely withheld in any case.”

Das Weisse Band, or as it is grudgingly known in English The White Ribbon is the 2009 Palme D’Or winning film by Michael Haneke, an Austrian filmmaker who’s most notable leitmotif is hostility toward the audience. Whether or not you like his films will boil down to your position on that issue, and quite honestly, if you think that going to the movies should involve some glimmer of entertainment, then stop reading now. Michael Haneke despises you and your gluttonous, popcorn-guzzling ways. If you have a quarrelsome streak, and have a fondness for arguing with the inexplicable, then you’ve just found your Citizen Kane.

The White Ribbon is set in a small Austrian village on the eve of World War I. A storm is coming, and it appears to begin with a malicious prank. The town doctor thrown from his horse when it gallops into a wire strung across the path. The doctor is thrown off and shatters his collarbone, and the close-knit town can find no motive or suspects. Days later, an accident in the mill begins to reinforce the suspicions and paranoia. Gradually, the idyllic life becomes routinely shattered with inexplicable acts of violence and soon everyone in town – from the Baron and the pastor, to the doctor and the farm workers – are all caught in a growing cloud of darkness.

Who among the villagers is responsible for these deeds? Who is covering them up? Haneke won’t answer those questions, and the film’s power is in its stern refusal to even address them. Evil isn’t the product of a single, discernable event, Haneke seems to be saying, it’s merely part of a grand cycle that passes from generation to generation. And once it takes root, it’s impossible to weed out.

The stark black and white cinematography adds to the air of vaguely defined menace that suffuses the village. The film was originally shot in color and converted to black and white in post-production, which, as many critics have noted, seems to have drained the film of any glimmer of hope. The crisp focus and blown-out highlights film each frame with intense detail and complete opacity. It is meticulous cinematography, every frame is precisely calibrated. The glacial tempo is strictly regulated and the soundtrack is painfully dry.

Critics have been enraptured by the film, because it’s the kind of film that appeals almost exclusively to critics. Read Ebert’s thoughts here. Anthony Lane blends a review with a tongue-bath of a profile of Haneke, and thoroughly slobbers over both (New Yorker, October 5, 2009; subscription required).

In Lane’s article, one of the early quotes from Haneke seems to sum up his position as an artist:

“I hate the smell of popcorn. I rarely go to the cinema… The spectators seem to have lost respect for the film.”

A profile in the New York Times magazine for his 2008 film Funny Games reinforces that.

“I’ve been accused of ‘raping’ the audience in my films, and I admit to that freely — all movies assault the viewer in one way or another. What’s different about my films is this: I’m trying to rape the viewer into independence.”

Stay classy, Michael Haneke. His work, however, is an interesting paradox. Countless art school dropouts have attempted to “rape the audience” with their work, but Haneke is one of the few who succeeds in making people ask for it. His films tease and beguile, luring you in with the promise of catharsis and then torturously refuse to deliver. Yet, as audience raping goes, Haneke does a far better and more thorough job than verzogener Fratz like Darren Aronofsky.

Haneke gets away with it because is an exquisite craftsman as a director. His work has a technically precise feel that clutches you by the throat even when the film is meandering through a sunny field. Even his admirers will admit his films are profoundly uncomfortable to sit through, and like any exercise in masochism, it forces to you reflect upon why you’ve just done that to yourself.

If you want answers, this is not a movie for you. The White Ribbon won’t even bother to answer your questions with other questions. Try to probe its mysteries and the film would laugh at your efforts, if it deigned to notice you at all.

Perhaps the film is a Zen koan – a riddle designed to probe the incomprehensible. As an audience member, I found The White Ribbon insulting and tedious. As a critic, I found it tiresome and opaque. Wearing either hat, I wouldn’t recommend that anybody go to see it. But whether it’s a study in arrogance, pomposity, or mundane belligerence, anybody who goes to movies to not enjoy them should make extra effort to seek this out.

With Robert DeNiro as his muse, Scorsese crafted cinematic classics like Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, and Goodfellas. With DiCaprio, he’s delivered the abstruse and turgid train wrecks Gangs Of New York, The Aviator, and now, Shutter Island. Simultaneously noisy and tiresome, the film expends so much energy trying to conceal its central gimmick that it spirals out of control. And without any real point of focus, all the sturm und drang dissipates like a whisper in a hurricane.

From the opening frames, where a ferry slowly drifts out of an impossibly opaque fog bank, the film announces its agenda to deliberately withhold the bigger picture. Unfortunately, that’s the only thing the film decides to withhold, because the rest of the film is overstuffed with a collection of thrown-together noir movie cliches.

Leonardo DiCaprio scrunches his face into knots to play Teddy Daniels, a man who constantly insists that he is a United States Marshall. He arrives on Shutter Island with a brand new partner to investigate the escape of a prisoner while, naturally, a hurricane is bearing down on the island. The hospital is run by the mysterious Dr. Cawling, played by the shaven head of Ben Kingsley. When Max Von Sydow shows up as a German doctor, the alarm bells of suspicion turn into red flags of absurdity. Von Sydow couldn’t appear benevolent if he walked onscreen carrying a bouquet of roses, surrounded by animated bluebirds.

The escaped prisoner plot line quickly takes a back seat to implications of nefarious conspiracies, personal vengeance, and Nazi-science experiment surgeries. The facility on Shutter Island isn’t the only one with a hidden agenda. Teddy, it turns out, believes the man who killed his wife has been hidden away in the bowels of the hospital, and he’s on an unofficial mission to find him. It also comes as no surprise to learn that Teddy is a haunted man, plagued by visions of his dead wife and his experiences in World War II. As the investigation plods onward, Teddy devolves into a hospital orderly, an inmate, and a fugitive.

Unfortunately, the trailer tips off almost all of the plot, and every scene carries the scent of suspicion. Misdirection hangs in the air like a thick fog, and nothing that we can actually see is engaging on its own, semi-obscured terms. The mysterious flashbacks are inexplicably psychedelic, and the powers-that-be on the island are improbably obscure. As the incongruities mount, that sense of withholding becomes fatally distracting. When Teddy has a crucial confrontation with a prisoner, you can’t help but wonder which cliché will ultimately explain everything. Is it the Jacob’s Ladder purgatory? The Angel Heart descent into hell? The sinister conspiracy that ensnares Teddy a la Arlington Road?

The problem with Shutter Island is that it violates the trust between the audience and the storyteller. Movies that have a successful twist have to operate on two levels. With or without knowledge of the bigger picture, every scene has to make sense both ways. For all the logistical nonsense of Fight Club and solemn misdirection of The Sixth Sense, the first two acts of both films are comprehensible and emotionally engaging on their own. By the time the narrative is stood sideways, it’s an enhancement, not a relief. On Shutter Island, the director is part of the subterfuge. The mystery doesn’t come from the telling, it comes from the certainty that the filmmakers are withholding some crucial parts of the story.

Scorsese’s hallmark has always been intense realism, so the opportunity to squander an epic budget on psychedelic elements must have been attractive. It’s hard to imagine another film that would allow him to stage the graphic concentration camp shootout that is one of the best executed (pun intended) visuals in the film. The pretentious and CGI heavy images of fire and water homage European surrealism, and the extended flashback that caps Teddy’s story feels like it could have been lifted from an unseen Bergman work.

All that firepower is wasted on a film that perversely decrescendos instead of climaxing. Whatever cinema-historical references Scorsese set out to homage are best left uncelebrated. Perhaps an upcoming filmmaker working on a tight budget could have made a smart, claustrophobic thriller out of this material. Sadly, Scorsese and his unchecked ambitions have little to offer beyond unnecessary obscurity.

Jack Bauer, at the start of season 1

Consider this – Jack Bauer has served CTU under five different presidents: the guy before David Palmer, David Palmer, Wayne Palmer, Charles Logan, and Alison Taylor.  He’s faked his own death, gotten hooked on heroin, and served time in a Chinese prison.

From ESPN’s loquacious Gregg Easterbrook, one of his loyal readers has pulled together this Bauer timeline:

I noted that on “24,” Jack Bauer saves critical minutes by traveling during commercials. Kevin Woods of Santa Rosa, Calif., provides further details on time dilation in the series: “In the first season, in 2001, Jack was a highly successful federal agent with a 15-year-old daughter. Although Jack’ age was never stated, he had to be at least 40. He was a college graduate who had received his master’s in criminology, then joined the U.S. Army, reaching the rank of captain in the prestigious Delta Squad. After the Army, he worked for Los Angeles SWAT team, then joined the CIA in its clandestine wing. After this, he was recruited to the CTU, the mysterious agency where Jack toils when the series begins. Jack had to be 40 when the series began.

“Let’s assume 43. Here is where the time line gets tough. Season 2 was 18 months after season 1, making Jack 44-45. Season 3 was three years after season 2, making Jack about 47-48. Season 4 was 18 months after season 3, making Jack about 50. Season 5 was 18 months after season 4, making Jack about 52. Season 6 was 20 months after season 5, making Jack about 54. 24-Redemption, a two-hour movie that supposedly tied things together, was four years after season 6, making Jack about 58. Season 7, happening shortly after Redemption, still has Jack at around 58. Season 8, looks to be two-three years after season 8, because Jack's grand-daughter is seen having conversations with him, making Jack around 60 years [old]. He's quite spry for 60! Also, add up the years and it is now 2014 in the series. Maybe that explains all the CTU super-technology that does not seem to exist in our reality.”

That's after 20 years of living right.

Now Mr. Woods of Santa Rosa is playing a little loose with the rounding up, and not knowing Jack Bauer’s birthday it’s tough to be precise. However, even with tightening up the estimates, Jack Bauer is 58 years old. May we all be so healthy on the edge of 60.

via Brett Favre and the Minnesota Vikings were brought down by Favre’s fatal flaw – ESPN.

Just look at the parking lot, Larry. Just look at that parking lot.

25 Imaginative Illustrations Inspired By Film // WellMedicated.

Note that Justin Reed, the resident artist from the dawn of Good Is The New Bad, is represented here with 3 of his finer pieces.

Many of the remaining works are just as clever. The Highlander novelization is a personal favorite.

We Got That B-Roll

Thanks to Netflix and the New York Times, now you know some of the answers. Behold a breakdown of 2009 rentals by zip code:

A Peek Into Netflix Queues – NYTimes.com.

If you ever wondered how safe your personal data is on the internet, here’s a scary object lesson. Sure, it’s anonymized. And even scarier is the conformity among neighborhoods. Play around with the sliders to see which neighborhoods are renting what. The first, biggest, and most embarrassing surprise is the frequency with which everyone in America seems to be renting the terminally tedious Curious Case Of Benjamin Button.

Looking at the patterns of Los Angeles rentals, for amusement check out the rental patterns for two Tyler Perry films – The Family That Preys and Madea Goes To Jail. Guess how frequently the residents of Malibu and Beverly Hills requested them?

Even cooler, and more telling (though only in ways that the ACLU would shit kittens over any meaningful attempt to draw conclusions from), is to drag the slider across the top 10-15 movies in an ersatz time-lapse. Watch the rental patterns – not just the intensity, but the areas where people are renting.

First, just about everybody in the Southland is renting The Shiteous Case Of Benjamin Buttass as their top pick, except for about half of the city of Los Angeles, and the good people of Lynwood.

For the international readers who might not be familiar with the birthplace of Weird Al Yankovic, Lynwood is right next to the more frequently name-checked ‘hoods like Compton and South Gate. And rightly or wrongly, it also has the same reputation as a gang-choked, poverty stricken hellhole. (Though you wouldn’t know it from the optimistically stock-photographed dead-end link called: Lynwoodwatch.com)

Say what you will about poor people, but if being rich means watching The Tedious Case Of Benjamin Suckass one more time, you can sign me up for foodstamps. I hope that it’s Netflix popularity is due to an early 2009 DVD release date, and that it’s gaudy rental numbers are a function of time as well as popularity. But since it was such a god-awful movie, I’ll keep taking my shots at it where ever possible.

Next up is Changeling, Clint Eastwood’s saga about a distraught woman in 1930’s Los Angeles. Nearly the same distribution pattern as Three Hour Boring Suckfest That Shall No Longer Be Named, and again the people of Lynwood lead the Southland in their cineastic wisdom.

Slumdog Millionaire, your 2009 Oscar winner for Best Picture hits a heck of a dropoff. The art film ennui spreads from Lynwood into Compton, South Gate, Inglewood, and El Monte.

Seven Pounds flips the numbers around a lot. But nowhere near as much as Eagle Eye. It’s a popularity inversion almost as severe as the Tyler Perry movies. Flip back and forth between Eagle Eye and Darren Aaronofsky’s tiresome The Wrestler. Holy socio-economic profiling, Batman, but the stereotypical lower-class neighborhoods apparently don’t give a shit about self-indulgent meditations on aging, but they do buy into the idea that the government is watching their every move! In the same vein, the people who love Eagle Eye also love Alex Proyas’ fatalistic supernatural melodrama Knowing. Is it for Nicholas Cage? Or for the paranoid ruminations of the inescapability of fate? You decide!

You can probably guess the rental map for biopic of gay rights activist Harvey Milk looks like. But why all the diffuse, widespread love for The Proposal with Sandra Bullock and Hugh Grant?

I might be the only person in 90041 with Transporter 3 on the queue, and I’m beyond delighted that Indiana Jones Buys Steven Spielberg A Fifth Summer House was rented by nearly nobody.

The most peculiar anomaly is 90747 – a subset of Carson, which shares almost nothing in common with Netflix’s top 25. Keep an eye on this trapezoid of dissidents as you pull through the maps. Who the hell are these people, and why are there so many kiddy flicks on their top 10?