It’s time for another Quick Thought, because I don’t know how else to make this announcement. I just want to make all of my readers aware that my contributions to Mr. Rumsey’s Film Related Musings indeed continue, although it has been a while since my last piece. I thought I would direct your attention over to that site, where you will find my latest contribution, a review of Canadian documentarian Denis Côté’s most recent offering The Joy of Man’s Desiring, best summarized by IMDb’s quasi-plot ‘summary:’
An open-ended exploration of the energies and rituals of various workplaces. From one worker to another and one machine to the next; hands, faces, breaks, toil: what kind of absurdist, abstract dialogue can be started between human beings and their need to work? What is the value of the time we spend multiplying and repeating the same motions that ultimately lead to a rest — a state of repose whose quality defies definition.
While I personally did not get a lot out of the watch, I can certainly vouch for the “absurdism” and the “abstraction,” as Joy uniquely bridges the gap between drama and documentary. But does an overload of static shots and half-mumbled dialogue make for a compelling watch though?
Rosewater may be watered-down in the drama department, but then that’s missing the point that Jon Stewart already seems to be blossoming from satirical news show host into a feature film maker with serious potential.
You won’t find many (if any) of Stewart’s signature snide remarks in this cinematic adaptation of Iranian-Canadian journalist Maziar Bahari’s memoir Then They Came for Me. Distilling the essence of that account into a rather harrowing hour and forty minutes couldn’t have been any small task, yet Stewart adapts with confidence Bahari’s being detained and brutal interrogation at the hands of Iranian authorities for 118 days — a kind of confidence that seems a natural extension of his ability to look a camera dead-on and resist the urge to crack wise whenever it was appropriate.
This somber account isn’t in the conversation of award-winning biopics, but Stewart’s dedication to exploring a serious, often potent subject matter is impressive regardless. Rosewater is earnest yet it never becomes powerful enough to arouse emotional responses; lenses dedicated to reflecting the tension that continues to define American and Middle Eastern relations have a more journalistic presence rather than anything that feels truly cinematic. But perhaps it’s a credit to the filmmakers that the final product never could be described as bombastic or self-serving.
Performances from Gael García Bernal and Kim Bodnia enrich the film with paranoia and distrust but it’s really how Stewart puts together an empathetic portrait of human beings being lodged in between a rock and a hard place. Bodnia’s Javadi (a.k.a. Rosewater), though clearly an unlikable and hostile man, is shaded with a humanity that saves him from one-note villainy. We witness the perpetual berating and detaining of the journalist as a function of Javadi taking orders from his higher ups. We notice these 118 days take a toll on him, though nothing like what they do to his prisoner. And clearly there are fundamental ideological differences that assure neither party are ever going to see eye-to-eye, but during the course of Rosewater‘s extensive imprisonment scenes we glimpse at a more disturbing reality: there’s an unsettling sameness about the extremist beliefs of Javadi and Maziar’s commitment to maintaining his innocence.
In one stand-out scene toward the end, far past the point where the blindfold Maziar must wear at all times signifies little more than an asinine Evin Prison regulation, Stewart beautifully displays how one triumphs over the other, and though it’s no spoiler to suggest which one does win out, the denouement finds The Daily Show host announcing that he has plans beyond sitting behind that desk, reading and analyzing ridiculous headlines. This is the film at its most optimistic and moving.
Rosewater doesn’t try to be a damning political statement. It’s about a man’s journey through psychological (and often physical) abuse and torment. For us, the torment is knowing how close Maziar is to freedom. His words carry truth but they aren’t worth listening to as far as Javadi and his higher-ups are concerned. To them, the journalist’s so-called treasonous acts speak for themselves. To them he’s a symbol of an uprising those in power couldn’t hope to suppress if enough of them spread across the land. The documentation of the violent reactions of citizens following the presidential election of 2009 isn’t an innocent act; it could galvanize the oppressed into action against a righteous government. Such ignorance is the hardest pill to swallow.
Rosewater reflects honestly upon a crisis situation that hardly feels sensationalized. Stewart demonstrates a knack for showing compassion towards his fellow man, even the ones we ought to loathe completely. Of course he’s never telling us to root for the bad guys, and he’s not exactly deterring anyone from celebrating the good ones outright. In his debut film Stewart is reminding us that every common human experience is tinted by some shade of gray. Some grays are certainly darker than others.
Recommendation: Jon Stewart has created a bit of cinema that has potential to be more powerful, but there are marks of a new talent present all throughout. Rosewater is politically-charged, but its surprisingly restrained in that regard and more often than not doesn’t lean too heavily one way or another. It’s a film worth checking out for anyone curious to take a glimpse at Stewart’s possible post-Daily Show career.
Rated: R
Running Time: 103 mins.
Quoted: “There are certain situations, that if you film them, won’t do your friends or the movement any good.”
All content originally published and the reproduction elsewhere without the expressed written consent of the blog owner is prohibited.
No walruses were harmed during the making of this film, though you better believe the human component didn’t fair so well. Particularly those in the audience.
Kevin Smith I find a gamble even at the best of times. His scripts, though often clever, intelligent — laced with profanity, sure, but that’s not part of it — and fairly accurate reflections of small-time American life, frequently tread the line as to whether there’s enough material to justify a full-length feature.
If ever one was curious about life at the convenience store Smith used to work at when he was young, there’s always Clerks, a genius bit of social commentary. Then there was one in color too, as if to prove he wasn’t just being pretentious. Zack & Miri, though one of his lesser-knowns, offered an interesting take on the things people would do for one another in a time of need. It was packed full of real flesh-and-blood characters, even if categorically perverted the lot of them.
Jay & Silent Bob (how could I forget?) was yet another intimate little story involving two stoners feeling insulted for being excluded from a movie adaptation based on their life. We’re actually trending away from reality a little more here but that’s quite convenient actually, because I’m about to drop the bomb on everyone.
Now this is terrifying. . .
In 2014 we’re presented with Tusk. And don’t I feel like a fool now, thinking almost every one of his productions thus far have come at the cost of his own sobriety. Surely he had to have been tripping on some kind of amazing hallucinogenic when conjuring up some of these outings. No, I stand corrected. We have finally found that which exists as purely one drug addict at a party’s proposition to another, laid prostrate on the ground, foaming at the fucking mouth:
“Hey, I know what’ll make for a good movie: let’s shove a pair of walrus tusks up someone’s face as part of an homage to the weird-looking mammal, one in which the victim is a complete douche and deserves virtually everything that happens to him. Here’s the kicker: we won’t tell Tom Six about how much we really enjoyed his experiment!” (Six was the director of that horrible thing some might affectionately refer to as The Human Centipede.)
What you’ll find here is hardly a rip-off of that production. Tusk is superior in its construction, and possibly even in its conception. One major difference is Smith’s decision to fuse comedic elements together with its horrifying content. Unfortunately another is that Smith half-assedly presents his case. There’s too much talk-talk and not enough warrooo-warrooo (that’s the sound a human-turned-walrus makes), and the build-up shows footprints after being trampled on in order to deliver a gimmick that can’t in any way, shape or form be taken seriously. Make no mistake: the walrus, visually, is a huge disappointment.
What now, bitch?
Wallace Bryton (Justin Long. . .in the tooth) and his buddy Teddy (The Sixth Sense‘s very own Haley Joel Osment) run a semi-successful podcast based out of Los Angeles. They call their show the Not-See Party. See what they did there? When a story idea presents itself to Wallace, he takes off for the land of funny-talking Americans (boy does Kevin Smith hate Canada) in search of his next opportunity to blow off his extremely attractive girlfriend who is with him for some unexplained reason. That these two are together is, when compared, the kind of cinematic injustice one can get over in a hurry. He fails to return, however, after stumbling upon a much more interesting lead.
A note in a bathroom beckons the tragically curious to an isolated mansion located on the outskirts of civilization (a.k.a. Manitoba). Wallace comes, he sees, but does he conquer? Tusk no. Neither does the polarizing Kevin Smith, whose life work may be best summarized as some of the most inspiring and ambitious slacker cinema. Tusk succeeds in grossing out the audience but only for a very brief period of time. The shock value is quickly ousted by bouts of hilarity, but we’re never sure if we’re laughing with the director or at him. And the ending is bound to leave the average audience in a most befuddled state.
Tusk is best summed up as wire-to-wire disappointment. Unable to truly capitalize on horror until too late, one thing it does have going for it is a delightfully sinister performance from Michael Parks, who plays some deranged Canadian version of Jigsaw, bent on establishing a relationship with the only thing he can seemingly identify with. Also, see this for another virtually unrecognizable Johnny Depp. But I have the distinct feeling these things aren’t the primary reason audiences are lining up to see this ‘truly transformative tale.’
Sigh.
Recommendation: Smith’s latest is as bizarre as — if not more so than — advertised. But it fails perhaps more than anyone might have imagined. Put it this way, when Fleetwood Mac’s “Tusk” hits, and you find yourself actually getting into the film, it’s a testament to how long we’ve been awaiting a distraction. Or, how much we really dislike the lead character. A recognizable song trumps any of the events on screen. I started tapping my legs. . .the legs that I still have. I started fidgeting in my seat. I had forgotten how good that song is. I highly encourage a rental rather than shelling out money to the theater for this one. It hardly beckons to be experienced on a big screen.
Rated: R
Running Time: 102 mins.
Quoted: “I don’t wanna die in Canada!”
All content originally published and the reproduction elsewhere without the expressed written consent of the blog owner is prohibited.
This hobby blog is dedicated to movie nerdom, nostalgia, and the occasional escape. In the late 90s, I worked at Blockbuster Video, where they let me take home two free movies a day. I caught up on the classics and reviewed theatrical releases for Denver 'burbs newspapers and magazines. Stay tuned to my ongoing Top 50 Reely Bernie Faves list. Comments and dialogue encouraged!
It’s time for another Quick Thought, because I don’t know how else to make this announcement. I just want to make all of my readers aware that my contributions to Mr. Rumsey’s Film Related Musings indeed continue, although it has been a while since my last piece. I thought I would direct your attention over to that site, where you will find my latest contribution, a review of Canadian documentarian Denis Côté’s most recent offering The Joy of Man’s Desiring, best summarized by IMDb’s quasi-plot ‘summary:’
Recommendation: Smith’s latest is as bizarre as — if not more so than — advertised. But it fails perhaps more than anyone might have imagined. Put it this way, when Fleetwood Mac’s “Tusk” hits, and you find yourself actually getting into the film, it’s a testament to how long we’ve been awaiting a distraction. Or, how much we really dislike the lead character. A recognizable song trumps any of the events on screen. I started tapping my legs. . .the legs that I still have. I started fidgeting in my seat. I had forgotten how good that song is. I highly encourage a rental rather than shelling out money to the theater for this one. It hardly beckons to be experienced on a big screen.
Thomas J 