The Integrated

Mean Streets (1973)
Martin Scorsese
Martin Scorsese & Mardik Martin

In his DVD commentary on Mean Streets, Martin Scorsese describes growing up in the New York neighborhood where the film is set. In that time and place, the world of organized crime was superimposed on everyday life, even if you weren’t directly involved in it. Scorsese says that even though you knew people who were involved, and had to deal with them on a regular basis, you didn’t judge it—it just is. You did what you had to to deal with it or avoid it, but always respectfully. However, while you may get caught up in it or keep your distance from it, it’s clear that you always knew you had a relationship with it and a certain position within the world you found yourself in. This is Charlie’s dilemma in the film. He’s caught up in the criminal world, and we do see him collecting kickbacks, but we never see him participate in any of the kind of ruthless violence that would shock audiences in later gangster pictures. Nevertheless, Charlie has an uneasy relationship with his position, and we get the feeling that he has some, far darker deed or deeds in his past, hanging over him. His relationship with his epileptic girlfriend who wants to move out of the neighborhood and pull Charlie out with her strains his relationship with his family and associates even further.

Charlie’s relationships with others are the arena where his struggle plays out, but the film primarily looks at it as a religious test. As Scorsese claims in the film’s opening line, “You don’t make up for your sins in church. You do it in the streets. You do it at home. The rest is bullshit and you know it.” Mean Streets is rife with Catholic iconography. There’s hardly a shot in the film without a crucifix or a portrait of the Pope hanging on a wall somewhere. (One memorable shot is an extreme close-up of a golden idol of the Pope, perhaps calling attention to the hypocrisy of religion in an organized form and the resultant necessity of everyday piety referenced in the opening line.) Confirming the destructive-but-ingrained status of organized crime, the club where much of the gangsters’ business takes place is submerged in red light, looking like the bowels of hell, and the owner’s car has a plastic red hand forming devil horns hanging from the rear-view mirror. They can no more be erased from the neighborhood than the devil could be erased from Catholic mythology.

Charlie goes to a church to pray early in the film, but as the opening line suggest he will not find much solace there. He will have to make up for his sins in the streets, which he spends the film trying to do by reforming a boisterous, insolent, and violent young man named Johnny Boy. (Here is a brilliant cut where the sound of police sirens from the previous shot carries over for a second, matching with out-of-focus blue and red candles at the altar that look like a police car’s flashing lights, emphasizing the connection between Charlie’s faith and the trouble Johnny Boy is getting into on the street.) Robert DeNiro plays Johnny Boy in an absolutely incredible performance, his third best I’ve seen after Raging Bull and Taxi Driver. Johnny Boy comes to life as a character that is as real, as irresistibly likable, and yet as frustratingly misbehaved as Charlie sees him.

But Charlie seems to be more concerned with his immortal soul than helping Johnny Boy for Johnny Boy’s sake, and it’s a very lonely path he walks. Whenever he makes religious references around his companions, he gets laughed at and mocked. Throughout the film, he periodically finds himself looking at fires—from candles, from a grill—and moving a finger as close as he can get it to the flame as he contemplates what his guilty conscience clearly expects for his afterlife. Despite his fretting about damnation and atonement, he seems to always have the heavens hanging above him, perhaps just out of reach. Almost everywhere, whether it’s out on a rain-soaked nighttime street or even inside the gangsters’ club, the space above the characters’ heads seems to be inky black, dotted with brilliant strings of globular lights that look like galaxies of stars. In this way, the cinematography is often noir-esque, drawing sharp contrast between thick shadows and glowing strings and pools of light. Scorsese’s direction is fantastic to watch at this early stage in his career. He frequently alternates between long takes, letting the camera linger and very passively observe the goings-on or follow a character for an extended period of time, and more brisk cutting, imparting a dynamic rhythm to the film.

Verdict: Superb, must-see early effort by Scorsese with a brilliant DeNiro performance.

The Good, The Bad, The Weird (2008)
Ji-woon Kim
Ji-woon Kim, Min-suk Kim

If you saw the title of this film and wondered if it has anything to do with Sergio Leone’s masterwork, The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly, well, yes it does. It has a connection with that film that is as superficial as cribbing the title. Korean director Ji-woon Kim helms this homage to GBU, but sadly he seems to either have not watched Leone very closely, or he’s just deeply misguided as to what makes Leone’s work great. What he has borrowed is the concept of three titular characters hunting for hidden treasure in the desert. What he has not borrowed is any of Leone’s sense of space, pacing, or staging. In their place, he brings an MTV-hyperactive style that ironically makes the film as un-Leone-like as possible. What he is nodding to are the least important things; the whole cute gimmick of “The Good” et al. and the MacGuffin they lust after aren’t what’s special, it’s how Leone tells the story visually and how flawlessly complementary Morricone’s score works with that.

Here, in the part of “The Good,” the counterpart of The Man With No Name, we have an upstanding, if slightly smirky, lawman who is great with a shotgun. In the part of “The Bad,” we get a cold-blooded expert killer-for-hire with obscure and mysterious motivations. Replacing “The Ugly,” of course, is “The Weird,” but despite the change of title, this wacky, bumbling, opportunistic criminal is probably more similar to Tuco than the other characters are to their Leone originals. The film introduces its MacGuffin, a treasure map, in the opening scene, and these three spend an overlong 120 minutes chasing each other after it, along with the Japanese army and a group of bandits (who have no reason in the film to exist except to harass The Weird from time to time and add several horses to the bombastic final chase). The film is a cavalcade of strung-together chases and shootouts with annoyingly flashy camerawork and pulsing pop-rock music. It’s all in-your-face style over substance. Finally, during the three-way gunfight lifted from GBU that we know must happen, Ji-woon Kim decides that maybe if he’s trying to pay homage to the film, he might try paying some homage to its director as well. One section of the build-up to shots being fired is done in the style of Leone in the scene being referenced. However, it looks more like the work of a film student not quite succeeding at emulating one of his idols than it does a professional, experienced director nodding to one of his influences. It goes by in the blink of an eye and is totally devoid of the dramatic tension and suspense of the scene it refers to.

Verdict: Tries too hard to be a wild and fun tip-of-the-hat to Leone’s masterpiece, misunderstanding completely what was good about The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly; ends up as a dramatically inert, overly glossy style-over-substance disappointment.

Barry Lyndon (1975)
Stanley Kubrick

This review contains spoilers.

Barry Lyndon might have the most straightforward surface narrative of any of Kubrick’s films that I’ve seen. There’s nothing here that’s as superficially bizarre or opaque as some of the narrative turns and imagery in his other works; there is no Renaissance Room. That’s not a criticism, merely an observation. 2001 hangs the barest thread of a story about evolution triggered by alien artifacts over the underlying superstructure of a film about intellectual rebirth, the perils of technology, the power of cinema, and other encoded themes. Barry Lyndon goes a step further on behalf of the superficial viewer, and presents quite a well-developed story (adapted from Thackeray’s novel) about the rise and fall of an opportunistic Irishman who never quite comprehends what he’s getting himself into. Complete with snarky voice-over narration, the tale of young Redmond Barry acquiring the “title and style” of Barry Lyndon is engaging in its own right, even if one never stops for a moment to consider deeper meanings.

Of course, though, many of the themes and concerns that permeate Kubrick’s filmography are present and accounted for here. Kubrick’s mistrust and skepticism about the military is foregrounded early in this film, much as in Dr. Strangelove, Full Metal Jacket, 2001, and presumably Paths of Glory (I haven’t seen it yet). Barry enlists in the army, sees someone important to him die, participates in raping and plundering (with an on-the-nose, but accurate comment from the narrator about the universality of such behavior in history), exploits a German farmer’s wife as he passes through, deserts from two different armies, and ultimately trumps up his martial exploits by telling his son a horrific war story as if it is a heroic act worthy of exultation rather than revulsion. Prevalent throughout the film is Kubrick’s scorn for elitist society and ideologies. This theme is critical to many of his films, particularly Eyes Wide Shut, and it’s a central fixture in Barry Lyndon also. After losing his first love to a pompous English officer, he is devoted throughout the rest of the film to prove himself as a man and climb to higher social strata. He succeeds at this, for awhile; but he never really earns anything he gets, and finally his bid for peerage crumbles and from there it’s all downhill for Barry. As the film progresses, Barry finds himself moving into the grand mansions and dining halls of elite English society, and these are often shown in wide shots such as the one at the top of this post. They are hollow spaces; they have only the veneer of beauty and value. At one point, Barry discusses a painting and inquires about purchasing it. Kubrick keeps the  camera focused on Barry; we don’t see what the painting looks like at all because it doesn’t matter—not even to Barry. It’s just an ornament, an object to adorn his walls and build upon the illusion of status and worth that they project.

Also prevalent in Barry Lyndon is the loss and corruption of father figures, which recurs somewhat in The Shining but is far more important in this film. This ties into a larger theme of the failure of the family, seen here as well as with the abusive and dysfunctional Torrance family in The Shining as well as Alex’s shriveling, incompetent parents in A Clockwork Orange. It begins with the death of Barry’s own father in the very first scene. Without his actual father, Captain Grogan becomes something of a father figure for Barry, only to be cut down in their first skirmish after Barry joins the army. In the meantime, while fleeing his home, he encounters a father-son highway robbery team; foreshadowing the relationship Barry will have with his next surrogate father, the Chevalier. This father has led his son into moral ruin, prospering at the expense of others, and the Chevalier will do likewise for Barry. The Chevalier, however, is a high society man, and so whereas the highway robbers operate simply and directly, the Chevalier’s tactics of theft and exploitation come with a necessary facade of deceit. Barry learns well, and proceeds to marry into wealth and utilize his ability to play in a world to which he does not belong, until it finally chews him up and spits him out on the street. The only difference, however, is that others are able to keep up the facade. As the final title card says, “It was in the reign of George III that the aforesaid personages lived and quarrelled; good or bad, handsome or ugly, rich or poor, they are all equal now.” Lord Bullington, Lady Lyndon’s son with the prior Mr. Lyndon, is a man who is born into a title that Barry will vie for but never achieve; yet, despite his status and the valid justifications for his quarrel with Barry, he is no more sympathetic a character. He, too, loses his father; Barry steps in as a father figure, but is inadequate in the role. Ultimately, this leads to Bullington actually challenging his failed father figure to a duel, which takes place in an empty, abandoned chapel. The symbolism of this is obvious.

Throughout, Barry Lyndon bears the handprint of Kubrick all over it. The use of music is especially Kubrickian. Classical refrains suddenly dart in and out of the soundtrack at impressive volume to accentuate key moments or convey certain attitudes about what is happening on-screen. In particular, his use of blaring regimental British marches almost any time that Barry is galloping down the road in uniform is mocking in its bluntness—more of Kubrick’s disapproval of military service. The film is languidly-paced to provide ample time to pore over the images, but Kubrick can effectively ramp it up when needed; the two pivotal duel scenes are completely riveting. The cinematography is gorgeous; this is perhaps his most immediately visually impressive film (though I am biased towards 2001 on that). For a film that doesn’t seem to get as much attention as his other work, Barry Lyndon is actually a resounding success, worthy of more credit outside of cinephile circles that it receives.

Verdict: Predictably stellar work from Kubrick.

Moon (2009)
Duncan Jones

Ah, that perpetually endangered species, the hard science fiction film. Not a swashbuckling techno-fantasy excuse for millions of dollars of CGI creations to light up and clang against each other and vaporize city blocks or space stations, rather a story hooked on the quintessential sci-fi question: “What if?” Sam Rockwell is Sam Bell, the lone employee at a lunar mining base, nearing the end of his contract. He’s been all by himself, on the far side of the moon, with no real-time communications, for three years. The base is mostly automated, but the company needs one human being up there to check up on things and perform maintenance if anything breaks down. The only semblance of companionship he has comes as a HAL-like robot that hangs from tracks in the ceiling. Right from the outset, we’re not sure if he’s quite been able to handle such prolonged isolation among the cold desolation of his surroundings. Then, one day, while driving a moon rover, he crashes…and to say what happens next would be to ruin the film. It gets strange—very strange—and one begins to wonder if the years of solitude haven’t pushed him just a little over the edge of sanity. Jones wisely resolves the mysteries of Sam’s predicament gradually over the final act rather than saving it up for a cheesy twist ending. However, the ending he opts for instead is a mostly limp attempt at suspense. The visuals are cool (and breathtaking whenever Sam leaves the confines of the base) but they’re a bit close to their referent for comfort. Clearly, the design is supposed to be “inspired by” 2001, but there’s too much wholesale replication and too little of a unique touch from Jones and production designer Tony Noble. The highlight of the film by far is Sam Rockwell, who carries it as essentially a one-man show. The only other character to speak of is the robot, voiced by Kevin Spacey. The film rests entirely on Rockwell’s shoulders and demands a lot of him, and he’s always compelling in bringing to life multiple facets of the character. And with that, I may already have said too much.

Verdict: Fascinatingly twisted little sci-fi yarn with some stunning lunar imagery to gape at. Also: Spaceybot.

A Woman is a Woman (1961)
Jean-Luc Godard

I’m an analytical kind of guy. When looking at art, my instinctual mode of reading it is to try and break it apart into layers and focus on details and patterns. (I believe this explains my adoration for Stanley Kubrick.) Godard, however, is intent on not letting me do that—and I can only admire him for it. Anna Karina plays Angela, a striptease dancer who has made up her mind that she wants a baby, and she wants it as soon as possible. Her boyfriend, Emile, deflects and dodges whenever Angela brings it up, and as they peck at each other throughout the film, Angela turns increasingly to her ex-boyfriend (and Emile’s best friend), Alfred, who still loves her. The film is rife with details and patterns that cry out (to this viewer, at least) to be analyzed and interpreted. It’s constantly self-aware; characters frequently speak to the audience and literally wink at us. The music abruptly cuts in and out, and is often exaggeratedly dramatic or comical, reinforcing a question that Emile raises: he’s not sure if this is a tragedy or a comedy, and neither are we. Angela and Emile’s arguments about Angela’s desire to have a child are cursory, and instead they spend time fighting about trivial matters like Angela’s pronunciation of “r” or trading simple insults via book covers.

What are we to make of these choices by Godard? What do they mean? How can we interpret them to come to a deeper understanding of what Godard is trying to communicate? These usual critical questions are deflected and their objects obfuscated at every turn. Godard worked from only a treatment, not an actual script, and wrote lines on each day of shooting. The film is deliberately improvised in a way that resists all rational deconstruction and demands that it be viewed on its own terms. What we can do, is look at A Woman is a Woman—at its idiosyncrasy, its humor and conflict, its messiness, its indescribable web of comedy and tragedy—and recognize something in it that is bittersweetly true. And perhaps we can also take Godard’s cue and take the serious not-so-seriously once in a while. (But not always—for a very differently-toned film about a crumbling relationship, look to Godard’s own Contempt from two years later.)

Verdict: Delightful New Wave pseudo-musical comedy that manages to be very funny in the midst of a story about very serious strain on a relationship, without losing sight of the latter.

Iron Man 2 (2010)
Jon Favreau (Elf, Iron Man)
Justin Theroux (Tropic Thunder)

Three films into the newly minted “Marvel Film Universe,” it’s starting to become clear what their strategy is.

1. Throw characters at the screen.
2. Hope something sticks.

It almost worked for Hulk, until the final half hour solidified its failure in an overlong, goofy, and poorly-executed monster brawl. In the case of Iron Man, something obviously has stuck, and it’s Robert Downey, Jr. Both films are elevated by his irresistibly watchable Tony Stark, to the point that there’s a legitimate argument to be had over whether writer Justin Theroux and director Jon Favreau are smartly playing the hand they’ve got or merely coasting on their lead’s charisma. RDJ’s as great here as he was in Iron Man, and gets so much time out of the suit to crack wise that the film is mostly a comedy/character drama, (wisely) going a touch light on the action prior to the fireworks finale. The problem is that while any one of those charming Tony Stark moments is delightful in isolation, they don’t tie together well at all. In fact, the film pings around wildly between different secondary characters and story threads—Pepper, Rhodey, Vanko, Hammer, Howard Stark… It’s not too many characters or plot threads, but surely they could have moved between them more fluidly without the feeling it has of breathlessly rushing from beat to beat without enough time, for example, to really deeply feel Vanko’s rage and acknowledge why he cares about Stark at all. Ultimately, the film is entertaining, whether putting RDJ on the screen for 90% of the running time is cheating or not, and the action finale is reasonably well-done. (Unlike many modern action films, I was actually able to parse what was happening in each shot—but just barely in many cases.) Still, charming actors and competent CGI rendering can’t quite cover up a scattershot script.

Verdict: A hair better than the first one. Fun, for sure, but falls short of the top tier of superhero flicks. Probably won’t age terrifically well.