Ratatouille

Dir. Brad Bird
2007
9.5


In their October, 2008 edition Sight & Sound magazine published a series of essays at the heart of which was the question “Who Needs Critics?” In editor Nick James' article he argues for an increase in honest criticism noting “we live in a culture that is either afraid or disdainful of unvarnished truth and of skeptical analysis.” True, this sound like an indictment of the populous rather than the preacher but James makes it clear that film critics are as much responsible for their own decline as are their readers (or lack thereof) and the industry they make their living off of. Fast forward to February, 2010. In that issue the magazine published a review of the most recent Twilight film, New Moon, which concludes by defeatedly asking “why do we bother?” As New Moon, Avatar and a slew of others proved this year, the 'critic-proof' blockbuster is going to be watched despite any amount of serious critical abuse. So why commit to writing about them? Though far from its central theme, the notion of critics' responsibility to their audiences is explored poignantly in Ratatouille, one of the few critically lauded and commercially successful films of the decade.

Though his role in Ratatouille is understated and representative of Pixar's classic “mirror antagonist,” simultaneously representing the internal struggle of the protagonists while allowing for a conventional tension-release narrative structure, food critic and vampirical (note: thanks for the word choice Alanna) antagonist Anton Ego proved an unexpected contrast to Pixar's history of inflated villains and a telling insight into the world of criticism. Ego represents the finest in cultivated taste and the contradiction that taste often neglects new experience. Though certainly a throwback to a time when the printed word held greater meaning, Ego's epiphany at the hand's of Ratatouille's central protagonist, Remy the rat, is no less important. In a moving flashback to his childhood we see Ego in a rural French cottage on the edge of impoverished tears. His mother places before him a bowl of the titular peasant dish. We watch as solace emerges from behind his weary face. The moment reconciles the fundamental contradiction latent in providing objective critique of a fanatically adored art. The predominant complaint against critics, especially those at Sight & Sound, has always been that they are emotionally and socially detached from those who would be reading their reviews. In pursuing their medium so devoutly they have alienated themselves against those who watch films for the sheer pleasure of the moving image. The critic is too often looked on as one who has lost the ability to enjoy the simple pleasures of their passion.

So, is a review of New Moon superfluous in the same way that a gastronomical review of Olive Garden is? Yes and no. Pleasure comes in many forms in both food and film. The tastes of both are certainly lowest common denominator at best. However, it is Ego himself who admits that bad reviews are fun to read and write. Certainly a professional film critic may have a harder time candidly pointing out how truly awful the Twilight films are due to the advertising interests of certain third parties, but this circumstance can permit or perhaps even encourage a twisted re-reading of the narrative. Same with Olive Garden. Instead of asking “who could possibly enjoy this?” perhaps ask “why is this particular cuisine so popular?” What does it say about our culture? Though certainly anyone who is truly interested in anything, be it food, film or otherwise will not wish to spend much of their time toiling in the endless banalities of the low, they must not, under any circumstances, dismiss the possibility of pleasure and surprise at any juncture.

Which leads directly into what Ratatouille is actually about. Epitomized by Chef Gusteau's mantra “Anyone can cook,” the film suggests that, try as we might, we cannot always predict from which corner of any occupational universe the “next great thing” will come from. Admittedly, the film is Pixar's most fantastic to date, calling for a suspension of disbelief so great that were the film not so rigorously sequenced it could have quite easily fallen into the realm of hopeless cinematic kitsch. Despite its premise (a rat wishing to become a cook and the human marionette who aids him), at its heart the film is quite pragmatic and almost painfully honest. Diagramming the xenophobia still prevalent in modern France (see: Jacques Audiard's A Prophet), Ratatouille's acute sense of melancholy stems directly from a prevalent social issue aggressively addressed through cinema. Though occasionally expository, the film unfolds beautifully. Pixar's animation team captures all the delights of the City of Light, allowing even the sewers of the famed Parisian rats to appear vaguely impressionistic. The film draws it's influence from the country's rich history of films that fall between the art house and the cineplex, utilizing an irregular structure but appropriating certain criterion from popular genre films (see: the film's ingenious chase sequence and the numerous illusions to Rififi and the caper films of the 1950s). Containing perhaps the least over simplified conclusion in Pixar's history, Ratatouille is a film dedicated to its social conflict and driven to deliver an answer rather than a not-quite-comforting-enough pat on the back.

So what does all this mean in terms of the film critic? With the film's central themes of identity and place within a cultural system, the bottom line is that we must expect great things but not to expect them to come from certain preordained regions. The film purports that by choosing a career (chef/critic) or an identity distinct and different from those we live with (human/rats) that we are instinctively closing ourselves off to a portion of humanity that may truly surprise us. Sadly, the film brings to light that this sort of behavior in society is not only accepted but encouraged. The ultimate difference between a critic like Nick James and a film like Ratatouille is the difference of intent. James wishes to wrestle back some of the prior importance of the professional critic in order to raise international cinematic standards in audiences. Ratatouille gently suggests that a professional critic is just a person with a passion that all too often gets the better of them; that their social position and projected self-importance can easily overshadow the subject they profess to loving. In other word the critic can become more important than the food/film/et al. As to which position I commit my loyalties, I will submit myself willingly to this closing ambiguity: I'm just a man with a movie blog.

WALL-E

Dir. Andrew Stanton
2008
9.3


When I reviewed Pixar's Up a few months ago I mistakenly labeled WALL-E as “overtly political.” Needless to say, further viewings have revealed a much greater depth of field. WALL-E's combative message is not merely aimed at the near sighted politics of greedy, flag-waving fascists but at anyone who has bought into the edenic capitalist consumption myth of having whatever we want whenever we want with no consequences. Taking place over 800 years in the future the film's themes find their roots in the California gold rush, the early days of oil, and the roaring 20s. Though WALL-E's point is clear the film is never obtuse and manages to do what Pixar does best: tackle a specific and relevant issue through the narrative framework of entertaining cinema. In this case it's a humanitarian message of preservation and symbiosis by way of a taut romantic thriller.

“Taut romantic thriller” may not be the first words that come up when discussing WALL-E. That is largely because the film was marketed as a movie for children and as a culture we have systematically lowered our collective expectations about the capacity for a children's movie to be either engaging or insightful. Lowered expectations may account for a fraction of Pixar's critical success but pales in comparison to the consistent accomplishments of the studio. The Pixar family are cinephiles. Over the course of ten films they have channeled, referenced and parodied so many great and memorable films that their Cinema of Reference has become a complex web of influence and tongue-in-cheek cultural pandering to mature audience members. This is not meant to sound negative. However, we have to ask ourselves if we aren't suppose to laugh at the by-now-cliche references to 2001: A Space Odyssey? Perhaps we are, but what do we make of the live-action Hello, Dolly that WALL-E watches obsessively and mimics enthusiastically? And how do we account for the influence of Mack Sennet and Charlie Chaplin on the film's delicious use of slapstick? Never mind the intricate use of realistic camera angles and techniques which subtly show deep gratitude to the principle output of Roger Deakins and Barry Ackroyd. By all accounts, WALL-E is not merely an incidental piece of children's entertainment but instead an impeccably balanced and fully realized work of art.

Perhaps what I enjoy most about WALL-E is the level of critical discourse that surrounds the film. To add to the ideological melting pot I'd like to suggest that WALL-E diagrams three different relationships to the universe: the Human, the Analog and the Digital. In the film the Human is heavily repressed, almost completely subordinate to the Digital, suggesting the timeless idea that we are slaves to our technology. The Digital is the streamlined and ultimately degrading process of subjugating one's own desires to one's duty. The Digital works unconsciously and effectively to accomplish its “directives” before embarking on its next objective. The Analog is the meeting point of the two. Technological but imperfect, the Analog is filled with a sense of history; a memory that is not its own (hence WALL-E's adoration for Hello, Dolly). The Analog works in cooperation with the Human but effectively utilizes the time and energy saving components of the Digital. Admittedly esoteric, this theory is built up throughout the film's plot and truly comes together in the film's closing credits which show short scenes of machines working in combination with humans to heal the Earth. Avoiding the pitfalls of Luddite doctrine, WALL-E suggests that technology (both Analog and Digital) work in cooperation with humanity. The film plainly states that we need to control our technological reliance. We must also reconcile our desire to explore the infinite domain of the Digital with our duty toward our planet, each other and our selves.

Considering the strong influence of the post-apocalyptic film genre, WALL-E brilliantly avoids the inconclusiveness and lack of resolution those films so often contain. The film's objective is admirably optimistic albeit in a characteristically simplified way. The film's only flaw is a effectively impotent antagonist. This nominal “villain” is a HAL 9000 protege cleverly named Auto whose only motive is “staying the course” aka maintaining the methodical (if unintentional) disintegration of the population's empathy and collective conscience, not to mention their anatomy. At the film's climax the Captain (who symbolizes the oppressed Human mentioned earlier) overthrows Auto and by doing so emancipates the ship's passengers from the tyranny of their own self-imposed slavery. The Axiom is revealed to the audience as a Panopticon with Auto seated at its zenith.

Herein lies the cinematic problem: the need for an antagonist when the true enemy is the weakness of the collective. The focal point of the film is not who is to blame but how to fix the problem. This is, of course, refreshing in an world where there is a constant need for scapegoats and it is heart warming to consider the possibility of moving beyond our crude system of ulterior motives disguised as moral righteousness. However, as a cinematic reflection of the real life situation we are in, this notion leaves something to be desired, especially if one considers how the humans are portrayed as blameless idiots who destroyed Earth simply because they didn't know any better. This idea is excusably one dimensional and the uplifting message of working together tends to over power the question of whether or not we are destined to repeat our same mistakes. By and large, however, WALL-E succeeds over other films which attempt to grapple with the true nature of our current dependence on technology and our susceptibility to what is easy. The film never once becomes heavy handed or “overtly political” but rather exists in a sublime sphere of inspiration and humanely motivated filmmaking, deftly blending stunning visual poetry and empathetic insight to produce a humble portrait of humanity through the lens of technology.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Dir. Terry Gilliam
1998
6.0


Several directors have attempted to adapt Hunter S. Thompson's magnum opus Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. It was hyperrealist Terry Gilliam who finally translated Thompson's intoxicating vision of a post-Love/Vietnam era America to the silver screen. It's not difficult to see the arresting appeal of Thompson's work especially to a visual filmmaker like Gilliam. Artistically the text falls far left of Norman Mailer and Tom Wolfe, opting for autobiographical involvement rather than journalistic detachment, but lands a little closer to center than William S. Burrough's seminal Naked Lunch, with its manic moods and recondite prose. Thompson's invented technique of Gonzo Journalism, utilized in this famed outing, fused the narrative elements of fiction with the cerebral objectivity of a reporter in the field, attempting to create a seamless, unconscious reporting; a sort of journalistic automatism. The start of the novel, the significant Dr. Johnson quote “He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man,” identifies both the central theme of the text as well as Thompson's intent. By subjugating the superego to the primitive ferocity of the id, through whatever means or substances deemed necessary, Thompson planned to reach anti-enlightenment: a state of mental and physical suffering so savage and visceral that he might truly escape the burdens of mankind. Hunter S. Thompson called Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas a failed attempt at Gonzo journalism. Sadly, Terry Gilliam's version fails as well, offering nothing more than a boiled down “greatest hits” version of this dizzying psycho analysis of America and its system of values at the turn of an epoch.

Gilliam's film begins its transgressions immediately. Before introducing the aforementioned Dr. Johnson quote, Gilliam juxtaposes stock footage of Vietnam protests with an eerily sweet rendition of “Favorite Things”. Despite being unnervingly Lynchian, Gilliam changes gears instantly with Johnny Depp's introspective and unabashed voiceover monolog and those tone setting opening lines. Immediately the contradiction becomes clear. Thompson sought to expose himself to the very horror of the American Dream letting his poetic stream-of-consciousness transport the reader directly into the story. The novel reads like a post-modern Heart of Darkness set on the west coast of America during the early 1970s. Rather than deliberately satirize his subjects Thompson's sharp prose and witty insights were mere footnotes to the shameful story that was unfolding right before his eyes. Gilliam's method, on the other hand, is contrived due at least in part to his medium. Gilliam, an internationally celebrated visual auteur, is an entertainer whose awe-inspiring vision occasionally detracts from any socio-political message he intends to broadcast. Example: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas attempts savage satire and ends up being 90 percent slapstick and Gilliam's hallucinatory vision of American dystopia. The film's opening montage may be the director wearing his soul and feelings naively out on his sleeve (or perhaps vainly trying to attract viewer sympathy through emotional coercion), but the greater embarrassment is how he immediately rescinds them, destroying any value they might have had to the audience who will no doubt begin to wonder just what motivated Gilliam to adapt such a novel in the first place.

There are, however, a couple of sincere moments of filmmaking which fit nicely into the film's narrative framework. The first is the most celebrated and oft-quoted section of the novel: the “wave” speech. Epic, universal and beautifully written, this passage is fitted with an appropriately understated scene of Thompson/Duke (Johnny Depp) staring thoughtfully out the window of his Las Vegas hotel. The second moment is longer and of greater impact. In a North Vegas diner Gilliam puts together the finest set piece of the film, wherein Dr. Gonzo (Benecio del Torro and his incredible beer gut) demonstrates the much down played dark side of the drug abuser while Duke sits watching with ambivalent detachment as the diner's waitress turns to stone at the sight of Gonzo's hunting knife. Perhaps most terrifying of all is the sobering realism of the scene. The viewer is desperately and emotionally drawn into what is otherwise a circus of vivid visual effects and simplified contemporary philosophy.

Despite its many faults including a shamefully pro-drug conclusion ( or pro-madness in respect to Gilliam's oeuvre), Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is not so much a singular misguided attempt at cultural critique but rather a sign of the times. It misses genius and controversy (the two statuses Gilliam professed to desiring most from the project) but alongside films like The Matrix and Fight Club emerged as a stylized signifier of a new decade of decadence and depravity in cinema. These films look incredible, come loaded with easily digestible subtext and end up offering an ambivalent moral open endedness. If there is no longer a voice like Thompson's in the literary world to put into apocalyptic and rapturous terms the very tangible horror of our time it is a small comfort having a filmmaker like Gilliam who can translate those same potent thoughts into moving pictures while other more uncompromising artists pick up the inspirational slack. Though it fails to be much more than an impotent screen adaptation of a visual, entertaining and culturally revealing novel, Gilliam's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas succeeded in introducing the text to a new generation, resurrecting the timeless and restless message of Hunter S. Thompson.

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.