The Grouchy Editor

“I didn’t expect Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, but there’s a limit to the mean-spiritedness one can endure in a character one is supposed to find delightful.”  That’s a quote from legendary film critic Andrew Sarris, referring to Ghost World in August, 2001.  The comment makes me wonder if Sarris stuck around long enough to watch the second half of the movie.

I’m curious about that because, up until about the midpoint of this comic-book-based film, I was inclined to agree with Sarris.  Ghost World’s heroines, recent high school graduates Enid (Thora Birch) and Rebecca (Scarlett Johansson), spend most of their time ridiculing everything and everyone around them:  other students, teachers, complete strangers.  Typical teenage behavior, I suppose, but still bratty.  Who wants to spend two hours watching that?

But a funny thing happens on the way to the strip mall.  Enid and Rebecca play a cruel joke on a nonconformist, nerdy music collector (Steve Buscemi), which leads to an unconventional relationship between Enid and the much older Seymour, and … Ghost World becomes something special.  And so does one of the “brats.”

Ghost World is based on a graphic novel by Daniel Clowes, and it’s directed by Terry Zwigoff, the same man who gave us the documentary Crumb, about legendary underground comics artist R. Crumb, so it’s safe to say Zwigoff knows his comic books.  But Ghost World comes to life in quirky and memorable ways, thanks to a clever screenplay and two standout performances by Birch and Buscemi.   And thanks to all involved, it’s that rarest of commodities:  a teen coming-of-age movie that actually has heart and brains.        Grade:  B+

Director:  Terry Zwigoff  Cast:  Thora Birch, Scarlett Johansson, Steve Buscemi, Brad Renfro, Illeana Douglas, Bob Balaban, Stacey Travis  Release:  2001

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From what I can tell, there are two big reasons the French film Amelie has achieved cult status.  I’ll buy into one of those reasons.  As for the other reason … I’m only kinda sorta on board.

Reason One is the star of this whimsical fantasy, Audrey Tautou.  If your taste in acting favors “quirky,” “eccentric,” “Bohemian” and “hippie,” you will be captivated by both the actress and the film.  But this conceit – that Tautou is so enchanting, so similar to that other Audrey – assumes everyone will embrace her waiflike charms.   Tautou is appealing, but I wouldn’t put her in Hepburn’s league.

Amelie (Tautou) is a shy waitress who makes a vow with herself to do good unto others (and, if warranted, bad).  This karma-code introduces Amelie to one oddball Parisian after another.  But this is fantasy land, so even the “bad” people she encounters are not truly evil.  The pornography shop where her true love toils is presented as more neighborhood boutique than den of sin.

You have to buy into this alternate universe for the movie to work.  You must accept that when, at long last, Amelie finds the man of her dreams (Mathieu Kassovitz), he is impossibly nice:  goofy, ineffectual, and apparently sexless – like Amelie herself. In this universe, lovemaking means innocent caresses, and nothing more.  When Amelie takes her man to bed, it’s as if she simply exchanged her childhood goldfish for an adult man.  

Reason Two to enjoy Amelie, the element I did buy into, is a humdinger:  It is a visual feast.  There are references to Renoir in the dialogue, and I have to believe the French artist would be impressed by this film’s look.  Amelie is simply one of the most gorgeous movies I’ve seen.  Every shot is a funhouse palette of greens, reds and golds – the Land of Oz in neon hues.  The film was Oscar-nominated for both art direction and cinematography, and it’s a mystery to me how it did not win.

Amelie is wish-fulfillment for dreamers, and there’s little harm in that.  Not all movies are intended to be realistic.  But if you wish for something more than two hours of quirky, eccentric, and dreamy, you’d best look elsewhere.         Grade:  B

Director:  Jean-Pierre Jeunet  Cast:  Audrey Tautou, Mathieu Kassovitz, Rufus, Lorella Cravotta, Serge Merlin, Jamel Debbouze, Clotilde Mollet, Yolande Moreau, Isabelle Nanty  Release:  2001

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I don’t ask very much of a horror movie, really I don’t.  I just want it to do one thing:  scare me.

Apparently, that’s asking a lot.  Studios and movie-rental companies are well aware of the demand for horror, and there are hundreds – maybe thousands – of genre titles out there.  Some of these horror flicks have competent acting, quasi-believable storylines, decent cinematography, and capable direction.  They do not, however, ever, ever, ever contain anything that scares me.  They do have lots of gore, but blood and guts are not scary; they are merely repulsive.  Achieving a good scare on film is the equivalent of a no-hitter in baseball, something rare and memorable.

I think the last time a horror movie made me jump was in 2002, when that creepy girl in The Ring climbed out of a television set.  The Ring was an American remake of a Japanese film, and so is 2004’s The Grudge.   Japan has quite a reputation for scary movies these days, so I decided to watch Ju-on, a 2000 direct-to-video cheapo* that inspired not only The Grudge, but also a number of sequels.

It scared me.

The low-budget little thriller got me good – one time for sure, maybe twice.  Okay, twice.  There is one scene in particular, set on a staircase near the end of the film … well, I’m not going to spoil it.

I can’t in good conscience recommend much else about Ju-on.  Its plot is silly, derivative, and at times incoherent – so no kudos to the screenwriter.  The acting is pedestrian.  But the director and his crew of photographers, editors, and soundmen obviously studied their horror movies.  They know timing, framing, and lighting, and they applied them very well.  I wanted them to do but one thing, and that they did.  They scared me.  Maybe twice.      Grade:  B

Director:  Takashi Shimizu  Cast:  Yurei Yanagi, Chiaki Kuriyama, Hitomi Miwa  Release:  2000* (This might be incorrect. At least one source says the film was released, theatrically, in 2002.)

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The Living and the Dead begins quietly enough.  The setting is one of those stately British manor houses with an imposing facade but which, once you step inside, has fallen into hopeless disrepair, probably because its occupants are too proud to leave but too poor to pay for upkeep.  The three inhabitants of the house are a respectable father (Roger Lloyd Pack), a dignified but terminally ill, bedridden mother (Kate Fahy), and their only son, James (Leo Bill).  Everything seems peaceful and proper. There is very little indication that director Simon Rumley is about to unlatch the gates of hell.

Our only clue that things are about to unravel – big time – is the unorthodox behavior of adult son James.  Actually, James’s problems are a bit more than unorthodox; he is a full-blown schizophrenic.  He is hyperactive, needy, and childish – but all of this is managed by medication and the loving care of his father (mother, remember, is unable to leave her bed).  James, who really means well, is desperate to prove to his parents that he is a responsible boy, that he can be “normal.”  And then one fateful day, father has to leave the house on business, and the day nurse can’t come right away, and James is left alone in the house with mother ….

I’ll have to say that watching Leo Bill as James, I initially felt that he was overacting and that his histrionics would grow tiresome and kill the movie.  I was mistaken. Bill, Pack, and Fahy all turn in superb performances in what must have been difficult roles.  Bill, especially, impresses.   When James panics, you panic.  What in God’s name will this unfortunate soul do next – to himself, his poor mother, or anyone around him?

The Living and the Dead can count among its cinematic ancestors movies like What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? and Misery, but Rumley’s film is even more horrifying because it’s more realistic.  There are no faded movie stars, famous writers, or crazed nurses in this film; just an ailing mom, an absent dad, and a boy with problems.   And boy, what problems.         Grade:  A-

Director:  Simon Rumley  Cast:  Roger Lloyd Pack, Kate Fahy, Leo Bill, Sarah Ball  Release:  2007

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In the recent documentary Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work, the venerable comedienne insists that, when it comes to standup, no topic is off limits.  That might be true, but when compared to today’s top comedians, old pro Rivers seems awfully tame.

Case in point:  Sarah Silverman: Jesus Is Magic.  Silverman, who joins Kathy Griffin in the upper echelon of American female comics, doesn’t seem to have any limitations:  “Smelly” Mexicans, blacks who don’t leave tips, anus analysis, and dying old people are all just fodder for a routine which, I have to admit, is often hilarious.  What seems to be sad but true is that the crueler the setup, the funnier the payoff.

What separates Silverman from the standup pack is her surface innocence.  Her “who, little old me?” persona and cutie-pie face are at comic odds with her delivery whenever she drops the f-bomb, simulates sex, cracks wise about the Holocaust, and so forth.   It does make me wonder, however, just how well Silverman’s shtick will play when she’s 45 and no longer “cute” – something never an issue for Rivers, and probably not for Griffin, either.

But for now – or, in the case of this concert film, 2005 – Silverman’s politically incorrect, profane, and outrageous offensive works just fine.       Grade:  B

Director:  Liam Lynch  Cast:  Sarah Silverman, Brian Posehn, Laura Silverman, Bob Odenkirk, Kelsie Lynn  Release:  2005

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