Jason F.C. Clarke

In preparation for the film, I read the novel by H.G. Wells. It’s just over 70 pages, so it’s a quick read. In the famous novel, the main character – known only as “The Time Traveller” – takes his time machine 800,000 years in the future, where he encounters two species: the small, peaceful but rather stupid Eloi and the violent, cannibalistic Morlocks, who prey upon the Eloi. The novel deals with both Marxism and Darwinist evolutionary theory and is surprisingly relevant to our modern day and age. The new movie deals with Guy Pearce and the “7-Up Guy,” and lots of special effects.

The movie begins with the Time Traveller (Pearce), now known as Professor Alexander Hartdgen, taking time off from his scientifical work (which involves lots of numbers and letters scribbled on chalkboards) to propose to his so-perfect-she’s-doomed girlfriend. One gunshot later and our hero has his idee fixe: to build a time machine and change the past.

Alex builds the machine, but finds to his shock that he can’t change the past. So, assuming that his descendants will be much smarter, he heads into the future to find out why. After a brief stop in the twenty-first century to talk to a holographic museum guide (played by Orlando Jones of “Make 7-Up yours!” fame) and witness the destruction of the moon, Alex accidentally leaps 800,000 years into the future.

In the novel, after 800K years the human race had split into two classes, the aristocrats and the workers, who eventually evolved into two species. The Eloi are little more than domesticated cattle for the Morlocks’ dining pleasure. In the movie, the Eloi are noble and intelligent Native Americans who run like cowards when the Morlocks come to eat them. Alex decides to take things into his own hands and show these monster-movie rejects who’s boss. Along the way he meets the bizarre, brilliant leader of the Morlocks, played by Jeremy Irons and referred to as the “ ber-Morlock” in the film’s credits.

The addition of the Irons character is probably the biggest departure from the novel; it’s also the most confusing, and serves to eliminate most of the Marxist and evolutionary questions that were in the novel. Irons is game for the hammy role, as he was for the evil sorcerer he played in the awful Dungeons and Dragons, and even in this brief cameo he outshines Pearce, who is all grimaces and pain. For what amounts to little more than a goofy sci-fi film, it’s a shame Pearce takes it so seriously (he’s capable of more; witness his passive-aggressive, effeminate portrayal of the villain in The Count of Monte Cristo). Samantha Mumba, as the Eloi love interest Mara, has one of the most pleasant, comforting screen presences I’ve ever seen, but she doesn’t get to do much else.

While I haven’t seen it, the 1960 George Pal version of The Time Machine incorporated a nuclear war into its plot, using that to account for the degeneracy and mutation of the Morlocks. This one makes a cursory attempt to keep the class issues intact, but it’s mostly concerned with giving us a lot of cool special effects. This, at least, is one place where the film delivers: the effects showing the passage of time are impressive, and the damaged moon, with chunks orbiting its remaining form, is one of the more terribly beautiful images I’ve seen in film.

I suppose it really goes without saying that a big-budget film like this wouldn’t exactly force its viewers to really think. It’s happy to play with the possibilities of time travel and throw up lots of fancy images. And that’s okay; I didn’t begrudge the filmmakers that hour and a half of my life when it was over. The scenes with Orlando Jones are amusing enough to warrant seeing the film.

Todd Solondz is the director behind the art-house hits Welcome to the Dollhouse and Happiness. I regret to say that I have yet to see these films, so I saw Storytelling without the greater context of Solondz’s canon. Whether this is a positive or negative thing seems to be a hotly debated issue; I have friends who swear that Dollhouse is the worst film they have ever seen, while others cannot stop singing the praises of Happiness. The only common thread I picked up in reading articles on Solondz is that he is “ungenerous” to his characters – a claim that is certainly supported by Storytelling.

The film is split into two separate stories. The first, subtitled “Fiction,” centers around Vi (the always game Selma Blair), a college student taking a creative writing course. We meet Vi in the throes of passion with her boyfriend Marcus (Leo Fitzpatrick), who has cerebral palsy. It’s clear Marcus is trading sex for Vi’s assessment of his stories. Later, in a brutal (but accurate) scene, Marcus’s story is torn to shreds by his writing workshop.

Brutal as it was, I enjoyed this scene. Solondz has clearly attended a writing workshop or two. The tentative attempts to find good things in the story, then the one criticism that opens the floodgates. The only wrong note is the creative writing teacher himself, who’s a bit more severe than any CW teacher I’ve ever met.

Following a break-up with Marcus, an upset Vi finds herself in a one-night stand with the writing teacher, a large, intimidating black man. Solondz is playing with dynamite here as about three or four cultural taboos (past and present, conscious and unconscious) take center stage. It’s difficult to describe the feelings the scene elicits. The professor practically (definitely?) rapes Vi while ordering her to scream racist obscenities at him. (Incidentally, the actual copulating figures are obscured by a red rectangle; the MPAA wouldn’t give Solondz an R rating with the scene as it was, so this is his way of underlining the censorship.) Yet, like Vi, any modern American viewer, raised in an era of tepid political correctness and smoldering undercurrents of racial conflict, will probably have a difficult time sorting out their assessment of the scene. My conclusion is that it was a rape. The difficulty was keeping race out of it.

The second story, entitled “Nonfiction,” focuses on an amateur filmmaker (Paul Giamatti) looking to make a documentary on the modern high school student. He settles on Scooby (Mark Webber), a slacker senior with no ambition other than to maybe get on television one day. Scooby is trapped in a suffocating upper-middle-class family (headed by a stern John Goodman, whose talent for displaying barely-concealed rage is put to good use). Even more interesting than Scooby is his kid brother, Mikey (Jonathan Osser), who torments the family’s El Salvadoran maid with seemingly innocent questions that shred the illusions of American class equality. The rage seething in this respectable, well-off Jewish family is fearsome.

I’ve never seen a filmmaker treat his characters with such near-contempt. He seems to have sympathy for no one – except, perhaps, the glumly passive Scooby. The Giamatti character (”Toby”) is, I would guess, intended as an avatar of Solondz himself. None of these characters are well-fleshed out, though some are creepy (particularly Mikey). I found it amusing that when Vi presents her rape as a story in class, one of the students asks the same question I was at the time – was it a rape? After all, Vi did what the professor asked. Of course, she was being intimidated – or was she? I think she was, but I suppose it’s open for interpretation.

Storytelling is not a film to move its viewers. Its mission is to shock, surprise, maybe even elicit a few nervous, guilty titters. How many directors would dare make a film that makes fun of people with cerebral palsy, has a black man rape a white girl, has a kid who mercilessly and innocuously torments his foreign au pair, and brutally exposes the raging undercurrent of middle class America? The film speaks the unspoken and dares us to face up to it. I only wish there were at least some spark of goodness to counter the cynicism.

At long last – a new movie review. It may be
telling that Gladiator is the first movie of 2000 that I had to
see opening weekend. It’s the firs tof the summer blockbusters, certainly – soon
to face serious competition from Scientologist founder L. Ron Hubbard’s Battlefield
Earth, which I’m not particularly keen on, and then Mission Impossible 2,
which I’ve been waiting forever for. But I think Gladiator will beat out Mission
Impossible 2 for me, hands down. MI:2 will doubtlessly be your usual
testerone-charged double-gun John Woo blast factory, whereas Gladiator is
a well-made testerone-charged Ridley Scott heroic myth.  

The comparisons people have made to Braveheart are
well-founded. Both of these films center around a single hero who finds himself
at the mercy of powerful authoritative forces, and must use his combative wits
to fight his way out of each tough situation. Like Braveheart, Gladiator
is a "guy movie" with heart, one that women can go to and enjoy,
perhaps not as much as men (and certainly not for the same reasons), but at
least they won’t be bored. And if the women happen to enjoy gory
gladitorial combat, all the better.

Gore there is, and plenty of it, but don’t let that stop you
from seeing it. Braveheart had its share of gore as well, though perhaps
not so stylishly. For many of the fight scenes, Scott employs the same
high-speed, highly-detailed frames that Spielberg employed (for very different
reasons) in Saving Private Ryan. Other scenes blend realistic CGI
elements so seamlessly that your breath will be taken away as you watch a real
tiger leap upon a man.

At first, the plot seems at once complex yet familiar (warning:
some plot spoilers ahead): the year is 180 AD. Roman Emperor Marcus
Aurelius (Richard Harris)
is finishing up a long series of invasions to capture territory in Germania. In
one final battle, Aurelius’ best general, Maximus (Russell
Crowe), succeeds in crushing the Germanic tribe that opposes them. Aurelius’
son, Commodus (Joaquin
Phoenix), arrives just in time to miss the battle. Aurelius, fearing the
effects of an overly ambitious and foolhardy Commodus as the emperor of Rome,
asks Maximus in private to be his successor. But before Maximus agrees, Aurelius

"dies," and Commodus declares himself emperor and jealously orders
Maximus executed and his family killed (this all occurs in the first twenty
minutes of the film). In a brutally violent sequence, Maximus escapes and heads
to Rome to try and save his family; but on the way, he is captured and sold into
slavery, eventually winding up as a gladiator.

I have to admit, I was skeptical about Crowe. His performance
in L.A. Confidential had been written rather over-the-top, so it was
difficult to determine just how good an actor he could be from that; his role as
the insane computer villain in Virtuosity suffered from the same problem.
I suppose his Oscar(NO copyright symbol, you Big Brother bastards!)
nomination for his performance in The Insider should have tipped me off,
but I haven’t seen that film yet. But in this film, Crowe gives a fine
performance for the macho-hero role he is given. In portraying Maximus, Crowe
finds the right balance of the simple farmer who is cursed with being the finest
killing machine – and military strategist – ever created.  The true emotion
Crowe brings to the role – the sad smile whenever Maximus thinks of his family –
saves the film from being "Mad Maximus" – a Roman version of Crowe’s
fellow Australian Mel Gibson’s breakout film. I was quite pleased; often, what
might have been a good movie is ruined by its human-tree-stump lead actor (The
Matrix, anyone?). 

There are other very strong performances in the film. Djimon
Hounsou (Amistad) is excellent as the fellow slave who befriends
Maximus as the two of them rise in the gladiator ranks; Harris gives the right
touch to the aging Maximus. Derek
Jacobi (Kenneth Branagh’s Hamlet, Love is the Devil), always a
delight, seems to have had his role as Gracchus, a Roman senator, tailor-made
for him. Connie Nielsen (Rushmore,
Mission to Mars), as Emperor Commodus’ sister, hits a few wrong notes, but
that’s mostly due to the script’s frequent ambiguity as to where her true
loyalties lie; they seem to fluctuate too often, and ultimately it weakens the
character. But Joaquin Phoenix, as the sickly and transparently evil Commodus,
is saddled with the most one-dimensional of the characters, and unfortunately he
is unable to rise above it.

The plot becomes more and more simple as the film goes on,
and the battles become longer and longer. While the battles are occasionally
drawn-out, they are nonetheless fascinating to watch. I found it ironic that
every time Crowe’s Maximus sliced off an arm or a head, the audience I attended
the film with would applaud and cheer – just like audiences did at the live
events 2000 years ago. While the movie is better than that – a lot better – it’s
nonetheless an element that cannot be ignored. 

First off, let
me apologize for the lateness of this review. The pickings for movies have been
slim lately, and I haven’t been able to get myself off my lazy ass to see a
3-hour epic like Magnolia, no matter the quality. I’m already waiting for
the big guns to start hitting in the spring with American Psycho and Mission
Impossible 2.

But anyway…The Talented Mr. Ripley. The last Matt
Damon movie I saw was Dogma; in that movie, he was still playing the
naive-young-guy role he seems to enjoy. This film, however, has shown me that
Mr. Damon does indeed have some true acting talent. He has finally made a film
which places him on  par with and, in my opinion, above his buddy
Ben. 

On the whole, the entire film is acted well. Jude Law (who
happens to share my birthday) plays Dickie Greenleaf, a spoiled rich brat who
lives the lazy life we all wish we could, hanging around in Italian villas with
his beautiful American girlfriend Marge Sherwood (Gwyneth Paltrow) while
impregnating his native mistress. Enter Thomas Ripley (Damon), a poor New Yorker
who, after being mistaken by Dickie’s father for a fellow Princeton alum like
Dickie, is sent by the father to bring Dickie back.

Predictably, Thomas gets caught up in the high life Dickie is
living, and fails in his task miserably while endearing himself to Dickie and
Marge. An interesting love triangle also develops, as Thomas begins to fall for
Dickie (yes, Dickie). The homoerotic overtones are handled with subtlety, and
Damon does a fantastic and believable job in striking the right balance between
Tom’s desires and his nature to be, as Dickie says, "boring," or, to
be less tactful, anal-retentive.

As the trailers hint, things eventually take an ugly turn,
and Tom soon finds himself performing acts he never would have thought himself
capable of. As the story progresses (and it does so very, very slowly,
one of the few flaws of the film), it tires to examine the emotions behind
"evil" – what causes people to do bad things, and how lies must build
upon themselves and crime breeds crime. While this theme is handled well, I’d
recommend Sam Raimi’s underrated A Simple Plan (1998) for a more in-depth
and masterful exploration of the same issues.

While Law and Damon shine, Paltrow is once again, like Shakespeare
in Love, stuck in the role as the love interest, and she never really moves
beyond the role. Indeed, by the end of the film, her laborious sobbing and
histrionics are not only unconvincing, but irritating. More interesting is the
lovely Cate Blanchett as Meredith Logue, another American debutante spending
some time in Europe. Philip Seymour Hoffman, as Dickie’s boorish friend Freddie
Miles, performs his role to irritating perfection and Jack Davenport gives a
nice touch of empathy to the tortured Tom.

As I mentioned before, the film does drag a bit, and
unfortunately, it’s not isolated to a particular portion of the film, but
infects the entire work – it’s as if the plot has been squashed a bit. Some
smart editing could have aided the film greatly. But the characters are
well-imagined and the plot and emotional subtexts are refreshingly complex; it’s
a film worth seeing, at least for Damon’s performance.

I never knew Andy Kaufman. I have a few vague memories of seeing
Latka on Taxi, and that’s about it. I knew he was some sort of pop
culture figure, because he was the subject of the REM song "Man on the
Moon." I knew he had done something with wrestling, but I wasn’t sure what.

A person I do know is Jim Carrey. Jim Carrey is one of the
definitive comedians/actors of my generation (or at least, my era); I’ve grown
up with him (though how much either of us has "grown up" is
debatable). Therefore, I was curious to see how well Jim Carrey could pull off
playing a role in which he had to capture the personality of another – quite
different – comedian. 

The result is intriguing. Whenever Carrey plays one of Kaufman’s
menagerie of characters – Latka, Tony Clifton, Elvis, etc.  – he is purely
Kaufman (or rather, purely Kaufman doing someone else). But then his voice drops
to normal, and he’s Jim Carrey acting as Andy Kaufman. Perhaps it’s a product of
the times; decades ago, it might have been more commonplace to have an a actor
portray a real-life person who was famous only a few short years before. As it
is, whenever Carrey’s character speaks "normally," I see Truman, I see
that drunk from the TV-movie Doing Time on Maple Drive, I see Carrey as
he acted when interviewed by Kurt Loder on MTV. I don’t see Andy; but then, I
didn’t know Andy.

The plot of the film moves swiftly from Kaufman’s childhood to
his first break-out show at a nightclub, when Kaufman, affecting a strange
foreign accent (the origin of Latka), went through four or five bad impressions
before bursting into a dead-on Elvis (in the film, the number of bad impressions
is shortened to 2). After meeting agent George Shapiro (played by Kaufman’s Taxi

costar Danny Devito), Kaufman’s career takes off – much to his consternation.
The rest of the film follows Kaufman’s attempt to stay true to his particular,
quirky brand of guerilla comedy – at one college appearance, his entire
performance consists of reading the entire novel The Great Gatsby aloud –
while his agent, friends, and network bosses try to rein him into the
mainstream. Kaufman’s only allies are Bob Zmuda (Paul Giamatti, aka "Pig
Vomit" of Howard Stern’s Private Parts fame), his best friend and
writer, and his girlfriend Lynne Margulies (Courtney Love), who is the only one
who may know the closest thing to the "real" Andy Kaufman.

The performances are all excellent, but the plot has several
faults. Both Giamatti and Love are underused, which is strange, considering
their importance to Kaufman’s life; his romance with Margulies is particularly
underplayed, a very disappointing aspect of the film. There is no sign of the
"real" Andy Kaufman here; we’re not getting under his skin. What we
get from Bob Zmuda, who co-produced the film, is Penn and Teller; Zmuda gives us
the machinations behind all of Kaufman’s gags, but no insight into the person
that was Andy Kaufman. This may, of course, be simply because Zmuda himself
never met the man – perhaps no one did.

The laughs, nonetheless, are there, and the film is touching and
poignant at times, as one would expect. Kaufman’s final days are somewhat
abridged, but since that was doubtlessly an intensely personal time, few details
may be known about it. But the funeral scene, both sad, funny, and inspiring, is
a perfect metaphor for the entire film; an amusing elegy to a brilliant, often
misunderstood, but beloved comedian. 

Yeah. I like Star Trek. I admit it. 

I’m mostly a fan of The Next Generation, far and away the
only of the four ST series with the slightest attachment of what might
loosely be termed a "cool factor" among the all-important age 18-24
demographic (damn, as of December 29th, I’m on the older side of that bracket,
at 21. Sigh). Anyway, while being a fan of TNG, I certainly watched the Original
Series on syndication. It wasn’t as cool as TNG, but it was okay. The movies
were better.

So what about Galaxy Quest? Galaxy Quest is a
movie based on the premise: what if the actors from the Star Trek
franchise were suddenly picked up by an alien race that believed only the
fictional crew of the television show could save their race? It’s an intriguing
premise, and it’s very obvious that the Galaxy Quest crew was based on
our friends at Paramount. Tim Allen plays Jason Nesmith, who, on the show Galaxy
Quest, is Commander Peter Quincy Taggart, the captain of the ship (got all
that?) He’s the Kirk figure. Then there’s Alan Rickman’s Alexander Dane, who, on
the show, is "Dr. Lazarus," some sort of hybrid between a Klingon and
Spock; and Sigourney Weaver plays the customary buxom female crewmember who
serves no useful purpose except repeating what the computer says to the captain
– and, of course, hanging half out of her uniform. Weaver actually looks good
with blonde hair – she’s sexier here than she was in Alien two decades
ago. Daryl Mitchell (of TV’s Veronica’s Closet) and Wings‘ Tony
Shalhoub round out the cast as the genius kid crewmember and the crack engineer,
respectively. 

Also a delight is Enrico Colantoni, the photographer on Just
Shoot Me, who plays the leader of the aliens who enlist Allen’s Nesmith and
the rest of the cast (whose show has been off the air for 18 years) to save them
from a mean group of lobster-like aliens.

The movie moves quickly from the wearying series of convention
appearances that are a regular part of the actors’ lives to outer space, where
the aliens have constructed an exact (functional) replica of the spaceship on
the original television show. It’s fun to watch the actors try to deal with
"real-life" alien combat and imagine William Shatner or Leonard Nimoy
calling the same shots. 

One of the film’s most amusing moments arrives when Allen’s
Nesmith, needing to navigate through the bowels of the ship but unsure how,
contacts a rabid fan on Earth for directions. 

In the end, Galaxy Quest neither indicts the occasionally
over-zealousness of the fans, nor does it indict the actors’ for mistreating
them. It gives us a fair, fun ride, and it’s an entertaining hour-and-a-half in
the movie theater. It has action, humor, and science fiction geekiness.
Recommended for any fan of Star Trek, no matter the series, and any fan
of science fiction television in general.   

For some reason, I never really got into James Bond. I knew he
existed, and I certainly thought secret agents were pretty cool and all, but I
just never saw any of the films, or if I did, I never got into them. I preferred
science fiction and fantasy as a kid, and pretty much stuck to those genres. So,
believe it or not, the very first James Bond film I ever saw was 1997’s Tomorrow
Never Dies. I later saw Goldeneye, and then rented Dr. No, and
have also seen Never Say Never Again. I liked the Pierce Brosnan ones –
they were clearly the product of a culture that had been accustomed to
high-speed, high-body-count action films, a post-T2 cinematic audience.
As an action fan, I found them greatly enjoyable; but were they truly

"James Bond movies"? 

The answer is – I’m not certain. I suppose it depends on when
you became a Bond fan, who you consider the definitive Bond, and what aspects of
Bond films you like. Connery was the suave seducer, or so he seems; he was also
the misogynistic bastard who would shoot a woman ten minutes after sleeping with
her. I haven’t seen much of either Moore or Dalton, but Moore seems to be the
one who was usually wrapped up in the technologically-based plots, such as Moonraker
and the like, and Dalton was just so of an interim Bond (though one of my
friends, a Bond connoisseur, swears by Dalton). 

Brosnan, for better or for worse, must be the late-90’s bad-ass
action hero. He must shoot people – a lot of people. He must do unbelievable
stunts (see the opening sequence of Goldeneye – I mean, come on!).
He must cause explosions –  big ones, and lots of ’em.

There are tons of explosions in The World is Not
Enough. I think just about every major set piece ends up getting blown up at
some point or another. I remember at one point, when Bond enters an interesting
new area, I turned to my friend and said, in my best approximation of Brosnan’s
accent, "Hmm, I’ll have a lot of fun blowing this place up." Sure
enough, less than ten minutes later – boom. 

But there’s really nothing wrong with the explosions. Then come
in between the usual Bond stand-bys – sleeping with beautiful women, making
double entendres that no woman would ever let a real man get away with
(especially not one she was going to sleep with), engaging in high-speed aquatic
chase scenes, engaging in high-speed ski chase scenes, playing with neato
gadgets, dodging helicopters sporting economy-size band saws, etc. All that, and
yes ladies, Mr. Brosnan looks damned good, doesn’t he?

While my Bond connoisseur friend has called TWINE his
favorite Brosnan Bond film so far, I have to say that while it was entertaining,
I’m not sure it was any more or less entertaining than the other two. Actually,
let me correct that. Plot and action-wise, none of the films have a particular
edge. But TWINE has Sophie Marceau and Denise Richards (who looks damned
good, even if I’ll never, ever believe she’s a nuclear scientist. Ever.).
The character that seems to be the film’s villain, Renard (Robert Carlyle) is
ignored for half the film and never really given the chance to develop – though
there’s something of a reason for that. Marceau shines, however, as the newest,
gloriously sexy Bond girl, with the hot accent (English is her fourth language,
or something like that). And for the first time, I found Denise Richards to be
hot. Nothing else I’ve seen her in (Starship Troopers, Wild Things, Drop
Dead Gorgeous) managed to give her quite the same ring-a-ding-ding as this
film does.

Overall, TWINE is at least as good as its two
predecessors, and maybe a little better. So if you’re a Bond fan, an action
movie fan, or ideally both, make sure you check this film out.