Re: 1990s List Discussion and Suggestions
Posted: Sat May 30, 2015 12:43 am
Final round of viewings before submitting my list and diving into the next decade:
Bodies, Rest & Motion (Michael Steinberg 1993) Amiable and artsy flick with a love rectangle forming between four Gen Xers who variously want, don't want, and/or don't know what they want. The whole film is but a series of longings and attempts at the intangible, with the biggest disappointments reserved for those who get what they thought they wanted only to be crushed by reality. I give a slight edge to this over Singles as far as serious attempts at depicting Generation X go, but I still like Empire Records' goofy messiness best.
Bongwater (Richard Sears 1997) It's a personal tradition for my marathon viewings of films for the list to only be halted when I come across a truly terrible film, and here it is, one of the worst films I've ever sat through. This movie is such a black hole of talent struggling against an utter void of value that it is worth foisting on your friends as an endurance test for bragging rights ("I lasted ten minutes!"). Here is a cast full of likable stars, some comedians, all capable of giving good perfs elsewhere, stuck within a comedy with no laughs, no jokes, and no comedic set-ups-- I'm not talking about a poor sense of timing or structure, I literally mean there is an absence of comedy in any sense of the term. Truly this tale of a pot dealer and his on-again/off-again relationship with a groupie (I tried to find a plot here to summarize and that's the best I can do) is one of the greatest unintentional anti-drug PSAs I've ever seen. No one is less interesting than stoners in real life, and transferring them to film and then giving them nothing to do but smoke pot on the couch and watch TV while giggling life away, as though merely presenting characters toking were enough to placate the target audience, is insulting to everyone, even potheads. About seventy minutes in, when I thought the film could not possibly get worse, only longer, the unthinkable happens: a character endures a "serious" rape scene, out of nowhere, for no reason, and it is never mentioned again afterwards. Shit's deep, maan. I don't care how many times I've said this, the bar keeps getting lowered: without question the worst film I've ever watched for one of these projects.
Flesh and Bone (Steve Kloves 1993) --A Spotlight-- A strong film and welcome rec, even if I didn't quite find room for it on my list. This was described as a mood piece in the recommendation and boy is it ever, especially in the superb opening sequence, wherein silence brings violence swiftly and cruelly. The film is about the kind of awful coincidences which occur regularly in crime fiction, of which this owes a bit of debt as Dennis Quaid plays a Texas vending machine big wheel (or as big as that distinction merits) who says little and seems at all times on the verge of wincing in pain and the relationships both old and new which bring him to some degree of peace for the actions at the beginning of the film. James Caan is colorful as Quaid's too-aggressively charming father and Meg Ryan didn't quite work for me as the stripper turned romantic interest, but to my eyes the film really belonged to Gwyneth Paltrow, who steals the picture in an early turn as the klepto beauty too far gone for any sense of reform or salvation. It's the kind of one-note performance that works because it never wavers from the negative reinforcement of the character's worst qualities and any fool could see she was on her way to stardom here.
It's the Rage (James D Stern 1999) Lightweight ensemble piece that I half-remembered from its original straight-to-pay-cable premiere, this anti-gun film is thankfully far more playful and arch in its treatment of gun violence than I recalled. The film's tone is set from the outset as Jeff Daniels shoots an "intruder" in his house and his wife Joan Allen stops in the middle of the aftermath to point out that he's ruined his new robe they got at Sundance with the blood splatter. This ain't art and the message is saved for the irony-dripped finale and title cards. This isn't a wishy-washy liberal movie either, but another of those "Random people interact and spill over into each other's lives" movies and the story concerns are all cheap shots, but the name-brand cast keep everything humming along so swimmingly it hardly matters-- my favorite interplay was the weirdo triangle that forms between Anna Paquin as the most brazenly white trash princess imaginable, Josh Brolin as the video store clerk who recommends Pepe le Moko to a customer looking for "adult" fare, and Giovanni Ribisi as Paquin's hotheaded ex-con brother who's interest in Paquin's sex life makes Tony Montana look like a cool dad. But everyone pulls their weight and the end result is slight but enjoyable. So, your standard issue Basic Cable Staple success story!
Les Amants du Pont-Neuf (Leos Carax 1991) Definitely an improvement over my only other exposure to Carax, the horrid (and tragically beloved) Holy Motors, this still has strains of the pained attempts at capturing and glorifying ugliness which made the more recent film so unbearable. But there are also unshakable images of inventiveness and beauty and the story is a compelling, if disturbing one. Juliette Binoche is quite good as well, to the surprise of no one. I was up in the air about the film for most of the running time, but when it was all over I had to admit it was worth the two hours I put into it-- but certainly not the millions upon millions of dollars Carax spent to make it.
Menace II Society (the Hughes Brothers 1993) Boyz N the Hood, for all its violence and sorrow, still offered hope. No such luck in this stylish and effective exploration of the worst the ghetto can offer. Here is a film devoid of hope, with characters caught in an endless cycle of showing off, mouthing off, getting off, ripping off, offing, and getting offed. Filmed with a color palate borrowed from liquor store neon signs, the film dwells on its violence, but no one but the stupidest of viewers could take the film's presentational approach to the nonstop barrage of empty, circular brutality as an endorsement. Sadly, while the film is well served by its cast, none of the characters here are as fully formed or memorable as those found in Singleton or Lee's seminal works, and while there's some logic to presenting many of the characters as exhibiting similar and somewhat interchangeable personas, the overall effect is lessened in comparison. Still, this is an amazingly assured debut feature to come from two twenty years olds!
Sliding Doors (Peter Howitt 1998) This is a movie like Harvey, where everyone seems to know and reference the premise, but few have actually seen it. Well, into the brave unknown I went and I found the twin tales of Gwyneth Paltrows who either do or do not catch a subway an almost successful experience. The problem isn't the gimmick, however, as it maintains some cleverness at the outset before the film just turns into two not-quite successful romantic comedies for the price of one. John Hannah is suitably doofy as one of the love interests, and Jeanne Tripplehorn is shrill in either half in what is a cheap and easy queen bitch role, and of course Paltrow has some fun with both sides (though not as memorably as Radha Mitchell in Woody Allen's crack at this bat). But the film's ending is a mistake, and is weirdly punitive for no other reason than to offer an easy "clever" button for what is, outside of the set-up, a duo of otherwise standard issue rom-dramedies.
Thank God He Met Lizzie (Cherie Nolan 1997) No one was saying "Thank God I rented this movie," I assure you. Poor Cate Blanchett: she got famous and then skeletons like this got licensed out of her closet for American distribution. 100% disposable and forgettable.
Bodies, Rest & Motion (Michael Steinberg 1993) Amiable and artsy flick with a love rectangle forming between four Gen Xers who variously want, don't want, and/or don't know what they want. The whole film is but a series of longings and attempts at the intangible, with the biggest disappointments reserved for those who get what they thought they wanted only to be crushed by reality. I give a slight edge to this over Singles as far as serious attempts at depicting Generation X go, but I still like Empire Records' goofy messiness best.
Bongwater (Richard Sears 1997) It's a personal tradition for my marathon viewings of films for the list to only be halted when I come across a truly terrible film, and here it is, one of the worst films I've ever sat through. This movie is such a black hole of talent struggling against an utter void of value that it is worth foisting on your friends as an endurance test for bragging rights ("I lasted ten minutes!"). Here is a cast full of likable stars, some comedians, all capable of giving good perfs elsewhere, stuck within a comedy with no laughs, no jokes, and no comedic set-ups-- I'm not talking about a poor sense of timing or structure, I literally mean there is an absence of comedy in any sense of the term. Truly this tale of a pot dealer and his on-again/off-again relationship with a groupie (I tried to find a plot here to summarize and that's the best I can do) is one of the greatest unintentional anti-drug PSAs I've ever seen. No one is less interesting than stoners in real life, and transferring them to film and then giving them nothing to do but smoke pot on the couch and watch TV while giggling life away, as though merely presenting characters toking were enough to placate the target audience, is insulting to everyone, even potheads. About seventy minutes in, when I thought the film could not possibly get worse, only longer, the unthinkable happens: a character endures a "serious" rape scene, out of nowhere, for no reason, and it is never mentioned again afterwards. Shit's deep, maan. I don't care how many times I've said this, the bar keeps getting lowered: without question the worst film I've ever watched for one of these projects.
Flesh and Bone (Steve Kloves 1993) --A Spotlight-- A strong film and welcome rec, even if I didn't quite find room for it on my list. This was described as a mood piece in the recommendation and boy is it ever, especially in the superb opening sequence, wherein silence brings violence swiftly and cruelly. The film is about the kind of awful coincidences which occur regularly in crime fiction, of which this owes a bit of debt as Dennis Quaid plays a Texas vending machine big wheel (or as big as that distinction merits) who says little and seems at all times on the verge of wincing in pain and the relationships both old and new which bring him to some degree of peace for the actions at the beginning of the film. James Caan is colorful as Quaid's too-aggressively charming father and Meg Ryan didn't quite work for me as the stripper turned romantic interest, but to my eyes the film really belonged to Gwyneth Paltrow, who steals the picture in an early turn as the klepto beauty too far gone for any sense of reform or salvation. It's the kind of one-note performance that works because it never wavers from the negative reinforcement of the character's worst qualities and any fool could see she was on her way to stardom here.
It's the Rage (James D Stern 1999) Lightweight ensemble piece that I half-remembered from its original straight-to-pay-cable premiere, this anti-gun film is thankfully far more playful and arch in its treatment of gun violence than I recalled. The film's tone is set from the outset as Jeff Daniels shoots an "intruder" in his house and his wife Joan Allen stops in the middle of the aftermath to point out that he's ruined his new robe they got at Sundance with the blood splatter. This ain't art and the message is saved for the irony-dripped finale and title cards. This isn't a wishy-washy liberal movie either, but another of those "Random people interact and spill over into each other's lives" movies and the story concerns are all cheap shots, but the name-brand cast keep everything humming along so swimmingly it hardly matters-- my favorite interplay was the weirdo triangle that forms between Anna Paquin as the most brazenly white trash princess imaginable, Josh Brolin as the video store clerk who recommends Pepe le Moko to a customer looking for "adult" fare, and Giovanni Ribisi as Paquin's hotheaded ex-con brother who's interest in Paquin's sex life makes Tony Montana look like a cool dad. But everyone pulls their weight and the end result is slight but enjoyable. So, your standard issue Basic Cable Staple success story!
Les Amants du Pont-Neuf (Leos Carax 1991) Definitely an improvement over my only other exposure to Carax, the horrid (and tragically beloved) Holy Motors, this still has strains of the pained attempts at capturing and glorifying ugliness which made the more recent film so unbearable. But there are also unshakable images of inventiveness and beauty and the story is a compelling, if disturbing one. Juliette Binoche is quite good as well, to the surprise of no one. I was up in the air about the film for most of the running time, but when it was all over I had to admit it was worth the two hours I put into it-- but certainly not the millions upon millions of dollars Carax spent to make it.
Menace II Society (the Hughes Brothers 1993) Boyz N the Hood, for all its violence and sorrow, still offered hope. No such luck in this stylish and effective exploration of the worst the ghetto can offer. Here is a film devoid of hope, with characters caught in an endless cycle of showing off, mouthing off, getting off, ripping off, offing, and getting offed. Filmed with a color palate borrowed from liquor store neon signs, the film dwells on its violence, but no one but the stupidest of viewers could take the film's presentational approach to the nonstop barrage of empty, circular brutality as an endorsement. Sadly, while the film is well served by its cast, none of the characters here are as fully formed or memorable as those found in Singleton or Lee's seminal works, and while there's some logic to presenting many of the characters as exhibiting similar and somewhat interchangeable personas, the overall effect is lessened in comparison. Still, this is an amazingly assured debut feature to come from two twenty years olds!
Sliding Doors (Peter Howitt 1998) This is a movie like Harvey, where everyone seems to know and reference the premise, but few have actually seen it. Well, into the brave unknown I went and I found the twin tales of Gwyneth Paltrows who either do or do not catch a subway an almost successful experience. The problem isn't the gimmick, however, as it maintains some cleverness at the outset before the film just turns into two not-quite successful romantic comedies for the price of one. John Hannah is suitably doofy as one of the love interests, and Jeanne Tripplehorn is shrill in either half in what is a cheap and easy queen bitch role, and of course Paltrow has some fun with both sides (though not as memorably as Radha Mitchell in Woody Allen's crack at this bat). But the film's ending is a mistake, and is weirdly punitive for no other reason than to offer an easy "clever" button for what is, outside of the set-up, a duo of otherwise standard issue rom-dramedies.
Thank God He Met Lizzie (Cherie Nolan 1997) No one was saying "Thank God I rented this movie," I assure you. Poor Cate Blanchett: she got famous and then skeletons like this got licensed out of her closet for American distribution. 100% disposable and forgettable.