Reviews

Memorable, visually stunning; a peak into a sort of sick world. Circus performers, religious zealots, mock patriotism, underworld masterminds, barely-human dirt-dwellers, mental multi-polarity -no wonder Jodorowsky started in comic books. The ending is far less hinted-at than, say, that of "Sixth Sense." Weird window into latino-horror; also recommend "Cronos." See the NC-17 version for politically incorrect drug use by mongoloid inmates and projectile blood (not integral to the story, but definitely added to the eerie first-viewing)

Despite the consensus that Jerry Lewis hasn't been funny in decades, I opted to watch this painful farce out of my reverence for the great book which 'inspired' it. And it had Marty Feldman -usually a real hoot. What unforgivable tripe! Lewis and Khan play Wilbur and Eliza (giant, ugly twins who are a genius collective genius when together, but idiots when apart) and their aristocrat parents terribly. Sadly, I'll concede that it sticks to the book fairly well -THE FIRST HALF! All the best portions are ultimately lost due to a cop-out screenplay which aims to get laughs from caper-style bumbling and mess-making by over-aged comedians sadly better suited to telethons. Read the novel -it's brilliant; Wilbur becomes the last (and tallest ever) President of the United States just before a plague kills off the majority of its population (wildly suspected to be due to inhalation of microscopic Chinese). His recollections of his better years and falling-out with Eliza are signiature bitter-sweet Vonnegut. The best part of the movie was Pat Morita as a prototypical 3" Chinaman ambassador.

Like "Un Chien Andalou" by Bunuel & Dali, "Meshes" might appear to hold some psychological symbolism, dream imagery, hidden significances or inside jokes. Where Bunuel & Dali insisted that all they filmed was to make "no sense at all," Deren's could have a hidden commentary on the woman's role in the home; time spent alone, to be drawn out is to fall deeper into oneself. The overall look of the film (shot over several years) is one of a camera experiment; one which carries the viewer scene to scene via strange footfalls on shifting soils, stairs, paths and floors. The sense of continuity is held through reoccurring imagery, and this film uses a mask to give the appearance of multiple Mayas at a table VERY effectively. Some of the stop-action (disappearing/reappearing objects) is rough, given the complexity of her camera, but given these limitations the film is a technical feat as well. Mesmerizing, re-watchable.

Aside from the fact that there are no black principal cast members, the significant change evident in Lee's direction is one toward addressing all-encompassing social ills. True, he's shown the ugliness of racism on both sides before, but in SOS, he's addressing distrust and violence to one's own kind, even own friend or family. Criticised by screenwriter magazines as lacking an identifiable protagonist, the film seems to work best because there is none. A Bronx kid turned Euro-punk has little to take issue with, nor much merit as a moral voice, but his inarticulate banter puts him appropriately in his place. David Birkowitz (the son of sam) is not highly visible, neither is Mira Sorvino. The shared stage, where no-one eclipses his fellow cast was a perfect window dressing for an unsettling human study.

Alvin Straight may or may not deserve this beautifully shot biography. His quirky musings between long shots of American greenery are about all the charm this soon-to-be Disney-owned, G-rated experiment has to offer, but man; what camera work. Grass. Lots of it. The kooky portrayal of this man with a mission to patch things up with estranged brother Harry Dean Stanton (who has about 2 minutes on camera -sort of the Darth Maul of the understated American epic). If it weren't for the edgy WW2 story, I'd be positive that this becomes a full-on family flick -strange fare from the man who brought us Blue Velvet, Wild at Heart, Twin Peaks, Lost Highway and Eraserhead. Oddly, this isn't an Elephant Man or Dune either. Pure Hallmark feel bittersweet. Expect the expected, nothing more.

What happened to Jim Jarmusch on this one? Entertaining, yes, but stylistically not in his own element. Down By Law was timeless, Night on Earth poignant; but Ghost Dog is stuck in the present, pigeonholed for 1999; complete with Wu-Tang Clan's RZA providing the trip-hop soundtrack and making a cameo. The camera work and location shooting is fairly conventional, the digital "kung fu" effects are forgettable. If something more had been going on visually, and if the quotes from the book of the samurai had been pertinent, maybe then the film might have still had an impression to make. For laughs it's a winner, though. I saw this film in the 2500-capacity grand Lumiere theatre in Cannes, and even the French were chuckling at the subtle, understated humor of the situations and dialogue.

Imagine the 2,500 seat Lumiere Theatre at Cannes dead silent. No one breathed as the incestuous sex scene began.

Understandably, half of the audience applauded as others booed the close of this film. The innovations in sound are remarkable, and locations stunning, but the crawling pace of a youthful cult leader's slow descent and eventual destruction of everyone near to him is arduous business. Thankfully it is broken up by strange twists of circumstance which justify those tortured looks from monolithic Deneuve and Depardeiu. It's just a bit of a shame that such traditional shock elements (an exploding head, a beautifully choreographed motorcycle accident) are precisely what the audience lives for to lift the weight of the rest of the picture. Carax's reply to the press between long drags on a cigarette, "What explicit imagery?" told me the rest of the story.