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Australian Adventures in MILF-sitting. The jokes about someone’s “Outback” almost write themselves. One cannot help but note that this film very much stacks its deck. The scenario couldn’t possibly play out if the women in question were not of the order of leads Naomi watts and Robin Wright. (Fun fact: Watts is only 11 days older than your correspondent.) As it is, this tale is heavily informed as a narrative about wealthy, unbothered, Pretty Perfect PeopleTM, and thus it follows that the story seems to lack a certain amount of universality—that thing that is a hallmark of all truly great stories (if not all art). Given that perspective, I struggle to come to a conclusion about the value of this movie. The actions of the characters come across as somewhat natural, even if also reprehensible. Yes, there are consequences of the actions, but it is debatable—and the film implies this—whether or not those (rather late-arriving) negative consequences are true deal-breakers. Apart from critical analysis of the narrative, one cannot help but at least report that the performances are very good, particularly the female leads. Watching this 2013 film some 13 years later adds to the sense that these middle-aged women are even further out of bounds for the younger actors than they actually were at the time of filming. And, of course, one must recognize that there's a certain amount of female wish fulfillment under-girding this story. Also, the Australian settings—particularly the beach scenes—provide at least as much visual appeal as the famously good-looking actresses. It’s a tough call; if you’re really into stories about complex interpersonal dynamics, you may find this film right up your alley. If not, at least you get a glimpse of the lives of the other (substantially less than) half.

The Death of Stalin

A movie that tries to be funny about what is ultimately a very unfunny subject. The Soviet Union in the early '50s was indeed, as the film makes clear, a place of great upheaval, chaos and murder on a grand scale, so trying to laugh about it, and about the men who made much of that happen, is a tricky task. This “comedy of terrors” does eventually achieve a level of success on that undertaking, though it has to build in that effort to reach its ultimate crescendo of genuine amusement. The credit for that achievement largely rests with the performance of Steve Buscemi as Nikita Khrushchev. Buscemi, even with his follicles pared down to the former Soviet leader’s familiar hairline, does not particularly look like the man, yet he captures his brusque, blustery nature quite well while adding an extra layer of caustic manner to the characterization, a performance that leavens the proceedings with the lion’s share of the story’s humor. Good work is also handed in by Simon Russell Beale as Lavrenti Beria, who brings a fair share of jocularity to his character’s murderous doings. Still, there’s a reason it takes a while for the laughs to break out in this movie—the gruesome nature of life under the communist dictatorship was no laughing matter. (Oddly, it also probably does not help that so many of the characters are played here by British actors, and that famously dry British wit doesn’t work as well as usual in this context.) Overall, the story works and the film entertains, but it’s not quite the riot one might expect, all things considered. But, after all, it does beat a trip to the gulag.

Sword of Trust

Hre we have one of those indie comedies that people love to rave about. You know, the ones that elicit comments like “hilarious” or “delightful” or “riotous.” Except really, those types of movies are never really any of that; they’re usually just mildly amusing, if that. So it is here. That’s not to say this is a bad film; that would unfairly besmirch the late Lynn Shelton’s effort as writer and director. This film does keep the viewer engaged and it has at least a few laugh out loud moments. Marc Maron has a naturalness in his performance as Mel the pawn broker, while the rest of the cast fill out the roster with the usual quirky characters who always populate these kinds of movies. And there, again, we get back to the original point: all of this feels very familiar to anyone who has watched this kind of indie flick before. Even some of the shots that Shelton presents throughout the movie show a familiar sensibility that is a hallmark of indie cinema. So we’re not talking about a moviemaking milestone here—just an oddball slice of unusual life comedy that’s watchable but not overly exciting. Yeah, you can hold the “hilarious”; “mildly amusing” seems just about right. Trust me.

The Dark Crystal

Weirdest Muppets ever. That’s not merely a put down—it is the essence of the main problem with this movie. All the creatures depicted within the story are so odd and far from human that it can be difficult for the viewer to find a “hook” in the film that brings the audience member into the tale. Even the little humanoid characters are weird enough to stand far enough away from the viewer that one can not really put himself into the place of the character—a required bit of empathy for a movie-watcher to really get into a film. (Some of the critters also present a problem in their inherent Muppetness, like when a group of them start having a hootenanny and try to out-Ewok the Ewoks.) The weakness of the film is also its strength; the movie is very much a feast for the eyes throughout, so much so that one must conclude that the bulk of the creativity went into producing the visuals over developing relatable characters or a consistent narrative. On the latter, for instance, the prologue tells us that the crystal cracked and the world was made a waste…yet, much of the story takes place in lush, lively landscapes—hardly a world turned barren. Finally, there’s a little too much voiceover; it would have been better to show the story more than tell it, a fact that reveals the weakness of the script. Plus what there is of the script indulges in a few too many fantasy tale cliches. (Fantasy worlds, apparently, are simply drowning in prophecies.) Nevertheless, the visual elements are impressive, as is the puppetry, which makes all these weirdos seem very alive. I think this movie has to go under the heading of a noble failure, even if it is watchable and relatively brief. Maybe you can get around to watching this flick around the next time the three suns have a conjunction. In the meantime, there are better fantasy stories to pay attention to.

Summer with Monika

Being young sucks. You’re at the bottom of the totem pole, you’ve got nothing of your own except dreams, and everything seems to be—or actually is—an obstacle. Then again, you do have something going for you: you’re young, and that’s a far better way to be than any way else. Does the latter fully compensate for the former? That seems to be the question Ingmar Bergman is asking in this meditative and moody movie. The narrative, such as it is, gives the impression that the answer is maybe not—or perhaps maybe yes, but only within limits. So testifies the story as it meanders its way through a naive adventure and ultimately to an inevitable conclusion. In terms of presentation, this film often made me think of those B movies I watched in MST3K episodes, where the riffers would rag on all the sequences that amounted to little more than padding. This movie has many similar stretches that do little to advance a plot but take up screen time with atmosphere and vision—the sort of thing that labels a flick a bad movie when it’s a run of the mill actioner but that is lauded as creative and contemplative in a film as consciously artsy as this one. That’s not to say that Bergman’s shots of Stockholm or the ocean and sky are intolerable, just that they only serve as a calling card of seriousness. So your reaction to this work will depend a lot on your tolerance for that sort of thing. It’s exactly the kind of movie that people envision when they think of a foreign film, and particularly so given its early ‘50s postwar timeframe, the general bleakness of those days (in Europe at least), and the black and white cinematography that conveys a feeling of dull, dull gray and despair. It’s all a rich stew, one that is not particularly to everyone’s taste, but could go down well for those with an adventurous cinematic palate. At the very least, you can watch this movie and remember something of what it was like when you were still young.

Hard Boiled

It had been forever since I first watched this movie, so most of it had long since been forgotten—and thus most of the film came across as fresh and surprising. Well, not the hospital sequence—that is simply unforgettable. What truly came as a surprise to me, upon re-viewing, was this movie’s inspirations and antecedents. I didn’t recognize it upon first viewing, but this flick actually comes across as an extended, Hong Kong flavored Miami Vice episode. It’s all there, pretty much from the first scene: the ‘80s music video styling, with plenty of quick cuts and rapid fire beats; the saxophone laden soundtrack; the mismatched partners, with Chow Yun-Fat and Tony Leung Chiu-wai as the Chinese Crockett and Tubbs: one plain and veteran and tough, the other fashionable and somewhat mysterious; and all the cop story cliches, including the rogue inspector, the angry, yelling supervisor, the thin line between the cops and crooks, and even the glamorous port city setting. It becomes clear watching this story how much John Woo, far from being an innovator, owes a great deal as a director to Michael Mann and countless MTV video directors. None of which is to say that this movie gets downgraded in any way—it remains a smashing good time as a viewing experience, with all the action one could want (or even stand), terrific performances by the leads bolstered by strong supporting work, and just enough pathos to make all that violence seem to have real importance. It’s still one of my favorite foreign language films—nothing hard about making that call.

  

The Seven Year Itch

Can you really make an unforgettable movie from one memorable scene? Indeed, from one memorable image? Well, no, of course not. Yet, this film has retained a place in the cultural consciousness simply because of that shot of Marilyn Monroe having her skirt lifted by a subway train’s breeze. That really is the only explanation, because this movie isn’t worth watching but for the presence of Monroe, both her appealing performance and her iconic presence and look. Beyond her contribution, this flick has little to recommend it. The narrative is composed mostly of Tom Ewell’s monologuing, which is tedious in the extreme. He’s a real drip throughout and no match for his co-star’s charisma. The fact that this movie is as uninteresting as it is baffles this viewer, considering it comes from usually reliable director and co-writer Billy Wilder. Honestly, I don’t know what to make of such a disappointment. If you must watch this one in order to ogle Monroe, who looks dazzling throughout, go ahead and scratch that itch. But I could easily go another seven years without looking at this movie.