whatever works (woody allen, 2009)

why is it that when woody allen ends his movies with a shrug of the shoulders and a “that’s life” sentiment, i’m satisfied, moved even?  allen’s newest ranks among his out-and-out funniest and in its self-consciousness and conceding to the heart over the mind is his most felt effort since sweet and lowdown.  inferior as it may be to that, or any great woody allen film, it satisfies anyone familiar with and helpless to allen’s “charms” and is certainly a welcome deviation from his globe-trotting phone-in: the abysmal cassandra’s dream, the misogynistic vicky cristina barcelona, and the concussive scoop. larry david is hilarious as larry david; his lack of any true acting talents outside of his own schtick is on full display here.  nevertheless, he’s charismatic enough to sustain my attention and forgive more than i should how awfully miscast he is.  this may be the first time i enjoyed a performance by evan rachel wood, or found her remotely attractive.  patricia clarkson, among my favorite actresses, is predictably fantastic in a role that’s contrived at best.

despite the plot’s misgivings (whatever works suffers from a very daunting lull in the middle of failed humor, silly plot conveniences, and a lack of larry david) and allen’s directorial complacency, there is much to be enjoyed here, admittedly (and aforementioned) more for the allen fan.  wordy and fast dialogue recall classic hollywood, aided by harris savides’ gorgeous, glossy photography, most evident in the exchange between wood and matthew goode on a boat–romance runs high, and the reverse shot close-ups are the most beautiful you’ll see in anything in theaters now.  music does a lot of heavy lifting in allen’s films, and i have no problem with that.  let it be to his credit that he chooses such wonderful tunes and places them to lift the sublime, however briefly.  whatever works is a cynic’s defeatist surrender to optimism and the enjoyment of life in all its frivolity and uncertainty, an easy sentiment but an important one.

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black narcissus (michael powell & emeric pressburger, 1947)

more the case than in any of the other powell & pressburger films, this is cinematographer/technicolor savant jack cardiff’s movie.  color cinematography has never been more expressionistic or perfectly executed.  the plot is certainly worthy if not in need of such visual bravura: a group of nuns led by deborah kerr go to a convent in the himalayas, the stage for the ultimate expression of the spirit vs. the flesh in cinema.  there isn’t much to say: this is one of the greatest films ever made.  see it.

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the dead (john huston, 1987)

i would want james joyce as the scribe of my swan song, too.  huston’s austerity and deft direction allow for joyce’s words to take front and center–huston’s son may have written the adaptation but one gets the sense that the screenplay consisted of little else than reformatting the story, which i haven’t read.  it’s a reverent adaptation and ultimately made me wish i spent the time watching the film reading the story instead, though that’ll probably be the case for any adaptation of joyce to the screen.  a very good, lovely movie.  if ever in the mood for an elegiac chamber drama, this is the way to go.

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moon (duncan jones, 2009)

david bowie’s son made a good movie.  moon manages to avoid the stigma that comes with playing in the shadows of established masterpieces–in this case, 2001: a space odyssey, (tarkovsky’s) solaris, and to some extent, blade runner–by learning the basic lesson that these films have in common and applying them to his own: science fiction is, at its best, an excellent vehicle for exsitential exploration.  true he may borrow his fair share of imagery and cadence, and his insights may not be entirely earth-shattering, but the film is directed with a sure and steady hand with a near-mastery of tone and rhythm.  in no other decision is jones’ ingenuity more evident than in his casting of sam rockwell–no other actor would have done.

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wise blood (jhon huston, 1979)

yet another film adaptation of a literary giant from huston.  hilarious and sad, and one of the strangest and most ambivalent stories about spiritual redemption i’ve ever seen.  were it not for the cartoonish and deflating music (which doesn’t include the perfect use of “tennessee waltz” throughout the film) and the lack of inspired imagery–this is, after all, flannery o’connor–this movie would be a masterpiece.

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everything you always wanted to know about sex* but were afraid to ask (woody allen, 1972)

a hilarious movie that’s funnier upon reflection.  allen’s facetious take on the sex tutorial is unbelievably silly, though i think i prefer bananas.  burt reynolds gives his best performance.  ever. as a performer, woody allen is at his funniest in this movie.  i can’t decide if my favorite is him as a sperm with the willies (“what if he’s masturbating?  we’ll end up on the ceiling.”) or the italian womanizer.

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empire of passion (nagisa oshima, 1978)

there might not be a more frustrating director for me than nagisa oshima.  my experience with his films has been consistent: amazing imagery (his compositions are immaculate) amounts to trite, drawn out, and unbearably obvious insights.  as one of the most celebrated contemporary japanese filmmakers, i would like to believe there’s more to him than what i’ve witnessed for myself.  empire of passion is the postman always rings twice posing as a japanese ghost story, and that’s about as interesting as it gets.  the transfer on the criterion dvd is one of the best they’ve done though, so at least it looked pristine.

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you only live once (fritz lang, 1937)

the prototypical love-on-the-run film, fritz lang’s near masterpiece offers more than the fatalistic romanticism typical of the sub-genre.  characteristically steeped in social commentary, lang’s interests are rather in the tragic forces that create these characters (the judicial system!) than simply telling the story of star-crossed lovers escaping an unwanted fate, not that there’s anything wrong with that (nicholas ray’s fantastic they live by night).  henry fonda broods and yells in probably his darkest role this side of once upon a time in the west.