Dazed and Confused was the first Richard Linklater film I saw. I was 12. It’s next to impossible to not get completely wrapped up in the time and place Linklater sets the film in. Every character contributes. Every single scene matters. I felt then, as I do now, that the only real problem with Dazed and Confused is that it has to end.
The problem with sequels is that sometimes you miss the mark. That’s really all there is to it. Maybe it came too late and the audience has already forgotten about the first film. Maybe there was a miscalculation and where the audience wanted more of A, Hollywood thought they wanted more of B. These things happen, and unfortunately they happened to Kick-Ass 2.
David Lynch is best known as a director but his original dream was to become a painter. You can see it in his first film, Six Figures Getting Sick, which is more akin to watching moving paintings than a live action film. It’s also a great representation of a common Lynch theme: the feeling of being trapped. If you didn’t make it to the end of the film (I understand) then allow me to clue you in: the men don’t stop throwing up. They’re caught in a loop in which they constantly vomit, pause, and then vomit again. There’s no escape for these guys. It’s a cynical vision—perhaps Lynch’s most cynical film—but it’s interesting to see this theme, so central to his voice, present in his work from the start.
Elysium is one of those film that, on paper, I should really enjoy. It has sci-fi elements, well-known actors who have a history of disappearing into their roles and a writer/director who is currently a Hollywood golden boy.
Sometimes all you need is star power to draw people to your movie. Even if the film isn’t very good you may still be able to snag a profit should people be drawn in by the actors. I call this the Brad Pitt effect. Or if you’re a hateful person, the Adam Sandler money-making-cycle-of-douche.
My plan was to write about the supposed theatrical failure of Pacific Rim, and although that subject could easily be an article unto itself, I’m still going to touch on it here.
But not before I at least say something, about the loss of yet another exceptional actor.
Last Friday I attempted to view two films. The Conjuring went off without a hitch, but earlier in the day my screening of Red 2 was rudely interrupted by a massive thunderstorm that knocked power out to the entire theater. On the plus side, I was given a ticket for one free film. On the negative side, I absolutely cannot watch a movie twice on the big screen unless I really, really love it. Even though I was only 40 minutes in, I already knew that I did not love Red 2.
The Conjuring shares many similarities with Poltergeist. There is the family unwittingly haunted by a malevolent presence. There is a team of investigators determined to help the family, and there is lots of equipment placed around the house in order to capture images of whatever is causing the disturbances.
One of the unfortunates of this column only being published once a month (which is down from the original rate of twice of month, which was starting to become more a chore than a pleasure) is that I usually don’t get to comment on things that have just happened. This is particularly true when an actor, filmmaker, writer or anyone along those lines happens to die. Through no fault of their, they usually don’t die at the same time I’m writing this. That leaves me open to writing obituaries. I’ve done that in the past, but honestly, I find it kind of depressing. I can comment on death, but I don’t want a head space that anticipates the possibility of having to write about it on any given day.
To call Tony Soprano one of the best performances ever captured on film should be an exaggeration, but in truth it’s an understatement. In six seasons of The Sopranos we followed Tony through every emotion that a human being could experience—from the peaks of highest joy to the depths of self-pitying despair, with frequent glimpses into the existential sorrow underneath it all. We stuck it out with Tony, no matter how bad he got, because he felt real to us, and he felt so real to us because of the work of actor James Gandolfini, who died of a heart attack yesterday at 51.