High Fidelity

Dir. Stephen Frears
2000
8.5


Let's make things clear: if you don't enjoy High Fidelity you're an asshole. No offense. Now let's make another thing clear: I said “enjoy” not “like”. Like how you “enjoy” grilled cheese sandwiches but “like” filet mignon. High Fidelity is cinematic grilled cheese. It is simple, rarely overstated, warm and comforting; satisfying but not nutritional. It is something of a guilty pleasure. Around the turn of the century High Fidelity could be seen alongside David Fincher's Fight Club, the Coen Brothers' The Big Lebowski and Richard Kelly's Donnie Darko as popular, style driven cinema that contained a somewhat heavy handed, yet earnest subtext on the decay of contemporary American society. High Fidelity takes place in a more idiosyncratic universe than any of the aforementioned films and its subtext is the most precise. Where those films commented on the absurdity of the modern world from a pedestal of intellectualism High Fidelity bravely faces the reality of social deterioration and disconnection from reality. By doing so the film rejects the fatalistic myth of the inevitable end of culture those films seek to propagate.

Shifting gears slight I will now embark on a Top Five List of the things I did not “like” about High Fidelity:

1. The meta narrative. Best described by the author of the text to which the film owes essentially everything as a film in which “John Cusack reads [my] book.” A film of two hours that dizzyingly introduces the audience to every delirious detail that enters protagonist Rob Gordon's (Cusack) head, there is little credence given to the audience's ability to figure things out about Rob for themselves. More importantly, there is little reason, at least at first, for them to want to.

2. Exposition. As if it wasn't bad enough that Rob explains everything he's thinking, at least he takes on a flawed full development due to to his speaking and believing both lies and truth. Moving beyond character monolog, the film persists in explaining or summing up characters' traits and motivations in and through dialog. A record store crony rightly states what the audience figured out 30 minutes prior: the record store employees Rob, Dick (Todd Louiso) and Barry (Jack Black) are cultural snobs and musical elitists. A mutual friend of Rob and his now ex-girlfriend Laura (Iben Hjejle) quite deliberately asks Rob why he wants to be with Laura, well after the average audience member has asked themselves the same thing.

3. Pace. The whole story line of Rob's working though of his romantic hang-ups is indiscriminately rushed and then slowed. The film plays like Ferris Bueller's Day Off (protagonist displaying exaggerated self-awareness which is little more than egomaniacal self-image) meets Dickens' 'A Christmas Carol'. He submits himself to an uncomfortable journey through his past (nostalgic and overly romanticized), his present (a queer mix of apathy and resentment) and his future (optimistic via uncertainty). The audience is either rushing headlong through Rob's subjective monolog or hanging pitifully on single moments overburdened by an insinuated romantic longing that seems to exist only outside of the frame.

4. Genre. This is nit-picky but the film is billed as a romantic comedy although it tends toward being a dissection of Rob's psychology, piteously lauding over every contradiction. The romance between Rob and Laura is average if only slightly understated. Between Rob's delusional rants, his co-workers deplorably detached Top Fives, and smirk worthy scenes of name dropping, the majority of the love story ends up being little more than a few scenes of Laura passionately trying to explain what is obvious to everyone except Rob. In the film's final 20 minutes after a funeral and a long overdue apology, Rob and Laura sort of reconcile and Rob rejects the virtues of “the perfect stranger” in favor of the real Laura. This scene amounts to the film's only truly romantic moment.

5. Laura. Here I will voluntarily become the asshole: Iben Hjejle's acting is burdoned by her lack of fluency in English. Director Stephen Frears choice of casting in this case is a bit of head scratcher.

Having laboriously mapped out my problems with the film, I still stand by my introductory paragraph. In fact I will go as far to say that the entire review of this film is slightly superfluous. The real reason anyone should enjoy High Fidelity is because it is one of those truly rare films that knows exactly what it is. It does not have the pretense to be something it is not. Pointing out the flaws of the film is like pointing out how the male characters in the film detach themselves from reality through obsessive categorization, ego and superficial assumptions of superiority that amount to little more than a shield to protect themselves from the merciless tendencies of the real world. It's a slacker romance which tends to forgoe its romance for the sometimes interesting, sometimes obvious psychology of its protagonist. Its a music nerds dream film and also their worst nightmare. It deconstructs the myth of cool and delivers a well meaning eulogy for emotional relations.

Most importantly, this subtext of interaction over isolation has taken on greater meaning in the ten years since the film hit theaters, during which time popular digital realms have further separated people from each other and themselves. The quaintness of the 1990s (an anachronism already at the turn of the century) presents the perfect venue to put the digital vs. analog trial into a human perspective: the very analog process of working it through with yourself and others and the very digital process of hiding under whatever is available to hide under (ie. ego-centricity and emotional detachment). Though he could have not completely anticipated it at the time (2000 marked the zenith of Napster and the birth of the mp3 age) and there is a marked absence of any serious debate between digital and analog musical processes in the film, director Stephen Frears illustrates a complex web of modern relations using the late 90s as the final, picturesque days before the emotional apocalypse of the digital age.

Waking Life

Dir. Richard Linklater
2001




This review is dedicated to the dialectical frustration of the film it purports to critique...

There is a fundamental contradiction latent in Richard Linklater's Waking Life. The film speaks at length about consciousness, mobility, living and being alive but in order to view the film we have to sit on our couch and experience the film passively; let the waves of progressive animation break over us; drown in its moody, philosophical diatribes; surrender to the stupefying experiences that is Waking Life. In utilizing this process I think Richard Linklater is trying to gesture toward film's existence in a “world of the dead”; a world of semantic visual language that, since its birth, has come under closer and closer constrictions until finally it arrives at its current state: modern cinema with all its limitations, both inherently in the medium (physical) and outside of it (financial), structurally built into the system by which all film comes to be and be seen. Of course the biggest contradiction of all is Linklater's voice in Waking Life. Is the film a serious testament to the myriad ways in which human beings find reason to live and connect with people? Or is it an ironic document, psycho analytically detached from its subject matter, about the hypocrisy of people preaching an active existence but who live in a constant state of ideas and dreams?

In honor of Linklater's subversion of narrative form I will self-destruct my own critical narrative. Here are two spoilers: 1) I hated this film. 2) The answer to the question above (and to all the questions posed throughout the film) is: there is no answer. In reference to the first spoiler I defend my tactless denunciation by suggesting that the conscientious film lover discovers a paradox in Waking Life. The viewer does not necessarily hate the film it is “bad”, in the critical and hyper objective sense, but rather because the film is actually not much of a film. It is a collective stream of consciousness that forms no parallels and obeys no laws. It adheres to no preconceived rules and thus ends up being some form of mutant neo-cinema. Yes, we view it projected on to screens or flashed onto our televisions like any other film, but Waking Life operates in complete opposition to the expectations of even the most well-viewed movie fan. The film transgress its initial self-awareness (a scene of studio musicians recording the film's eerie score) and enters a bizarre state of permeability between the viewer and the nominal protagonist.

The viewer is dragged into the film via fantasy POV shooting and is addressed directly by the film's hyper stylized characters (many of whom are rotoscoped versions of Linklater collaborators and friends). This faux-documentary style is all the while counterbalanced by the abstract narrative of our “protagonist” and his journey from unconscious observation to conditioned awareness. The viewer takes this journey in just the opposite direction, initially perturbed and offset by almost every aspect of Linklater's film and later completely entranced by it. The intensity of Linklater's audiovisual process, which some have suggested to be in sync with the film, while being hugely impressive is nonetheless completely distracting, disconnecting the viewer from the essasyistic network of ideas which Linklater has scrupously collected and loosely connected to one another. As the final credit sequence rolls the viewer has either completely rejected the film or accepted blindly its aura (and potential illusion) of knowledge, creativity and enlightenment.

To call this film difficult would be a dramatic understatement. In fact, it is nearly impossible. The film is conceived as a series of hallucinatory episodes, from the sublime to the intensely visceral, meant to mimic the dreamscape in which all the unconscious thought process an individual might have throughout their life is articulately stated by a number of talking heads. The films title and preeminent theme (if one may be so bold...) is that of the differences and similarities between the world of dreams and the “waking life” which is, of course, discussed at length, with Linklater tediously wandering from one semi-plausible explanation to the next. Perhaps the film's most inadvertently pleasing facet is how this “waking life” is referred to us by its opposite: the film. The film, which is a pure construct, drawing attention to its own construction through its dynamic animation and the absurdity of its non-linear structure, reminds us that outside of this film there is a whole life that we are meant to interact with. But therein lies the problem. Is this the climax of Linklater's eulogy on life or the punch-line to a nasty joke?

As formerly stated that troubling question remains unresolved. The obsessively nomadic structure means the viewer is never firmly rooted in one idea before he is lifted off to another one. Affective film making is scattered throughout, but the Waking Life is mostly an authoritarian and derisive approach to the communication of ideas. Where hints of the celestial may appear they are immediately stomped out by the coldness of the cerebral, punished for their attempts at transcendence. The film ends up being an elliptical meditation on life, death, dreams and how all three (apparently) relate to one another. It invites contemplation and active participation without ever leaving your living room. It is thus a contradictory statement, one that attempts to wield far too much control over its own contradiction, and as a result becomes the perfect example of art's uselessness. Utterly didactic and un-fulfilling, through Waking Life Richard Linklater has abandoned his duty as a filmmaker in order to tell (at length) instead of show, proclaiming all that is absorbing, arresting and illuminative in both fiction and non-fiction because it is communicated intrinsically rather than letting the film divulge its hidden self.

The Assassination of Jesses James by the Coward Robert Ford

Dir. Andrew Dominik
2007
9.8


2007 was a hell of a year for film. Were it not for P.T. Anderson's magnum opus, the Coen's darkest (and possibly best) venture, the Palm D'or winning 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, David Fincher's glorious Zodiac, the impeccable I'm Not There as well as several other outstanding films from directors new and old, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford may have had a chance of establishing its own mythic stature. This isn't meant to downplay the critical and commercial reception of the film nor to eschew its quality. Just the opposite: it is an attempt to suggest that through its incredible psychological depth mirrored in its breathtaking pictorial quality and ability to co-opt American myth to comment back on American myth making, The Assassination of Jesse James was then and continues to be, like James himself, ahead of its time.

In age inundated with films of all types and quality, from the hysterical spectacle of the Hollywood blockbuster to the outsider installation-ready art film, suggesting a film is “ahead of its time” may be kind of a moot point. Which films recognize and represent our cinematic time? In 1942 when Orson Welles released Citizen Kane, a film that utilized a myriad of unseen techniques to a sophisticated and highly effective end, it was not so obvious that the film was “ahead of its time”. In fact, like so many masterpieces before and after it, it was a critical and commercial failure; rejected by its viewership like one fickly rejects an unappealing flavor in a dish. Almost 70 years later it is unanimously praised as the most important film of all time. Upon my first viewing of The Assassination of Jesse James I rejected the film on the grounds that it was blaise mythologizing, tedious and banal, creating an artificial gravity around a subject that could not hold its own weight. In retrospect I can say that I was not paying enough attention. Closer examination revealed a world of psychological intimidation and obsession. Themes of distortion, of vision through the smearing of camera lenses and blurry windows of the picture perfect colonial houses and of time through the panoramic vistas with clouds rushing by above them, etched an aching metaphor of Robert Ford's painful detachment from reality and Jesse Jame's descent into madness. The quantity of characters and their offscreen movement, before seemingly untraceable, shaped itself into a dramatic symphony of elements; a exquisite counterpoint of desire and duty. Most importantly, the severe but never overt emotional undertones of the film came through, as a crescendo, building to a soaring catharsis of a climax reaching its hand out of the screen and tugging the viewer by the collar into the depraved and alienating world of myth.

The myth that the film relies so heavily upon is actually based, as much as possible, on fact. The central story, that of Jesse James “befriending” Robert Ford (the true central character of the film) and his eventual, intentional death/suicide at his hands, is true. The myth, that is not so much cruelly debunked as it is gently, if painfully, revealed, is the one in Robert Ford's mind. That myth, of Jesse James as a God, is further encouraged by the film's voice over narration which unveils details of Jesse's inner life that create a rich subtext of his sometimes inexplicable actions and abilities. The film is less about an accurate portrayal of the past as it about personal, subjective history. It not about knowing the textbook facts but memorizing the penny arcade story, which is of course more interesting and much more revealing. The film's core story sometimes feels like the stuff of myth, although it is firmly grounded in historical realism. The myth exists in between the words and the actions, in the breathing room that Dominik expertly allows for. It is during these moments, when we are asked to study the nervous twitch of Ford's face or the omnipotent reflection in Jame's eye, that the infinite myth of the film reveals itself.

Dominik takes both a minimalist and maximalist approach to his film. The aforementioned emphasis on spaciousness in the dialog and the supreme concentration on his actors (still not enough has been said about Casey Afleck and Brad Pitt who offer career expanding and career topping performances, respectfully) is uniquely balanced by his rigorous attention to period detail and a noteworthy ability to subtly illuminate and apprehend the viewer, both of which greatly deepen the film's astounding ethos. The film also represents a perfect conjunction of minds. Dominik, working with veteran actor Brad Pitt alongside no-longer up-and-coming Casey Affleck, utilizes the multiform talents of director of photography Roger Deakins (who impressively also filmed No Country for Old Men that same year), procures Nick Cave and Warren Ellis who create a score wonderfully harmonic with the meloncholy tone of the film, and snatches Spielberg's editor. Spare no expense, indeed! And the result is a masterpiece of modern cinema.

Though it may be cinematic blasphemy to continue the line of reasoning that compares The Assassination of Jesse James to Citizen Kane but nevertheless the parallels linking the two are evident. Thematically and cinematically the two are cut from the same cloth. Whether James proves to be as important as Kane is for history, and the omnipotent power of myth, to decide.

Happy Birthday Blog

Here's a cake:


Well its been a year since I started this compulsive cataloging project and in that time I've gone from an understated review of quite possible my favorite film of the decade to roughly 55 reviews and three whole followers. Tongue firmly out of cheek I have to say I nevertheless feel accomplished. Though my reviews began in January I didn't think to share them with the world until this day one year ago when I think I either began taking myself more seriously or was really needing some sort of random validation via distance contacts on Facebook shamefully tagged in notes of self-promotion. Either way this blog has been a big part of my life this past year. Around the same time I began posting here I decided what I really wanted to do was attend film school. Far be it from knowing how this would happen I nonetheless became intensely focused on the idea. As of December of this past year I was accepted into the Visual and Media Arts program at Emerson College. I will start as a Junior in the fall, will be in college at the same time as my 17 year old sister and will graduate after pretty much every acquaintance I ever had in high school.

However, I am happy. And I am truly pleased with this blog's progress. Though I sometimes feel critically intimidated (my current periodical film sources, Sight & Sound and Film Comment have just recently published their [understandably] staggering year-end and decade-end lists) I find comfort in recognizing the limitations (read: potential) in my critical voice and the evolution of my viewing capacity. Each film adds depth to my understanding of the history and culture of the medium.

I realized some time ago that, at least for me, film criticism is an art. While this might seem obvious, it considerably helps in figuring why, after a year, I continue a project of cataloging and creatively analyzing an artform that is expanding faster than I, or anyone else, could possibly hope to keep up with. It also explains why an absence of commentary on my abilities or perspectives has hardly hindered my desire to continue. One creates art first and foremost for the self. This blog has become, in the last 365 days, as much a part of me as anything else. Though I may share it willingly, it is more of a personal memoir, a cataloging of my own growth, than any means of asserting myself as a serious voice in the film world. I will be the first to admit that I am no more than a whisper. But this is still very import to me.

I sincerely hope that 2010 and the years that follow find me even more harmoniously connected to the film world. There is so much I have yet to see that sometimes I find myself (embarrassingly) quivering in anticipation while at the video store or the library. Each film is an experience despite (and sometimes because of) its quality or lack thereof. That is what I mean to record here. Written between the lines of this blog is an ever expanding love and respect for the world of film, to which I am eternally grateful.

- Kevin

ps: To relieve some of the nervous tension of such a prolonged and supercilious eulogy here's another cake. Thanks for reading.