“Rambo: Just when You Thought It Was Safe to Go Back in the Jungle”
Review by A.O. Scott
Defense by James Spica
A.O. Scott’s review of “Rambo” is written as if by a chocolate lover who is trying, for argument’s sake, to expound upon the various points of its unhealthiness, only to break down at the end and concede that yes, chocolate is fantastic.
Scott spends most of his time in this review describing the great variety of absurd and overly-heroic happenstances that make up the plot of this movie. At several points in his review, he acts as if he is about to critically “smoke” the movie, but then turns around and admits that it is the absurdity or the heroism that makes the movie bearable in the first place. When he is just about to ridicule the film for its arbitrary setting (“Burma? But why not Burma?”) or the typical action movie hero fodder (“Mrs. Benz is on hand to scream, gasp, fall in the mud and huddle in a bamboo cage, waiting to be raped by the Burmese bad guys or rescued by Rambo.”), he admits that it isn’t so bad, after all. The largest of these ‘concessions’ is the end of the article, where he speaks about “blockhead poetry” (the second of two fantastic phrases in the review coined, it seems, just for this movie: the first being “cucumbersome”).
Mr. Scott, in a relatively brilliant review, by way of his almost childish excitement, prepares viewers for the guilt with which they will enjoy this movie.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
An Attempt at Artistry Turns It to Slop
by James Spica
Though it is probably not a question one asks one’s self very often, there are times when one must inquire as to the relevance and artistic merit of someone literally banging music out of their acoustic guitar for hours on end. At what point do the same ten chords played with one’s fist become completely insufferable? Folk music fans will say that this phenomenon is quite tolerable, but even they would cringe upon viewing “Once.”
This film is, to be brutally honest, the closest possible thing to a one-and-a-half-hour-long Cat Stevens music video.
The main problem is that its filming style and content do not match—though it is filmed in a documentary style, there is none of the typical musical group documentary additives, such as interviews, press appearances, and other such things that make such films interesting in the first place. The intrigue of a band documentary comes mostly from conflicts within the band, the bands wild antics, and interviews that expose the true nature of the artists. This movie is an odd conglomeration of mediums: a documentary camera, love-story emotion, and a music video plot.
The filming style may be attributable to the film’s low budget. On the other hand, the lack of balance between music, dialogue, and plot devices belies partial if not complete intention in the way of a music documentary. The long scenes with the artist’s music playing loudly, shaky “hand-held” camera that makes one’s stomach queasy, all are at least partially purposeful. There is a preconception among film-makers as to the ‘artistry’ of a film being dependant on the ‘independent look’ described above. This is why many film-makers praise films like “Gummo.” The musing or experimentalist nature of any film may be stylistic but isn’t necessarily artistic, and the same goes for “Once” It is a travesty that anyone might have thought that an hour and a half of their ‘artistic genius’ would have done anything besides lull viewers into a deep sleep. Of course, the wailing of the main character might make sleep difficult.
Though the characters in the film are played by musicians and not career actors, bad acting is not the most immediately noticeable of this film’s faults. Indeed, for the fact that they were not career actors, their performances were relatively good. It is the subject, content, and plot of the film—the meat, so to speak—that ruins it.
Some might say that, in a fully artistic sense, the intention behind this film is to expose the hopelessness and boredom of life punctuated with brief moments of brightness. The film might convey this, but there must be a better way to do so that burning the eyes and ears of the audience.
This film lacks balance, intrigue, and musical taste to the point of making it intolerable. The best cure would be to make it closer to a typical documentary or closer to a love story—walking the line isn’t always good, especially if one isn’t a proficient tightrope-walker.
by James Spica
Though it is probably not a question one asks one’s self very often, there are times when one must inquire as to the relevance and artistic merit of someone literally banging music out of their acoustic guitar for hours on end. At what point do the same ten chords played with one’s fist become completely insufferable? Folk music fans will say that this phenomenon is quite tolerable, but even they would cringe upon viewing “Once.”
This film is, to be brutally honest, the closest possible thing to a one-and-a-half-hour-long Cat Stevens music video.
The main problem is that its filming style and content do not match—though it is filmed in a documentary style, there is none of the typical musical group documentary additives, such as interviews, press appearances, and other such things that make such films interesting in the first place. The intrigue of a band documentary comes mostly from conflicts within the band, the bands wild antics, and interviews that expose the true nature of the artists. This movie is an odd conglomeration of mediums: a documentary camera, love-story emotion, and a music video plot.
The filming style may be attributable to the film’s low budget. On the other hand, the lack of balance between music, dialogue, and plot devices belies partial if not complete intention in the way of a music documentary. The long scenes with the artist’s music playing loudly, shaky “hand-held” camera that makes one’s stomach queasy, all are at least partially purposeful. There is a preconception among film-makers as to the ‘artistry’ of a film being dependant on the ‘independent look’ described above. This is why many film-makers praise films like “Gummo.” The musing or experimentalist nature of any film may be stylistic but isn’t necessarily artistic, and the same goes for “Once” It is a travesty that anyone might have thought that an hour and a half of their ‘artistic genius’ would have done anything besides lull viewers into a deep sleep. Of course, the wailing of the main character might make sleep difficult.
Though the characters in the film are played by musicians and not career actors, bad acting is not the most immediately noticeable of this film’s faults. Indeed, for the fact that they were not career actors, their performances were relatively good. It is the subject, content, and plot of the film—the meat, so to speak—that ruins it.
Some might say that, in a fully artistic sense, the intention behind this film is to expose the hopelessness and boredom of life punctuated with brief moments of brightness. The film might convey this, but there must be a better way to do so that burning the eyes and ears of the audience.
This film lacks balance, intrigue, and musical taste to the point of making it intolerable. The best cure would be to make it closer to a typical documentary or closer to a love story—walking the line isn’t always good, especially if one isn’t a proficient tightrope-walker.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Is Zinsser Writing a Children’s Book?
By James Spica
To be completely frank, William Zinsser’s “Writing About the Arts” (ch.18 of On Writing Well) is a bland introductory read—and should be regarded only as such. All information of great import is stated, an example sited, and sights are set immediately on the next point. This is meant for the writer who sits down one day and says “I’d like to write some art criticism,” long before said writer has gone to his second-ever gallery show or writing reading. It seems as if Zinsser is writing to a child—it pains the ears of any person who has any common sense or has read even one review. This piece is for simply breaking the ice, as is noted in phrases such as “a distinction should be made between ‘critic’ and ‘reviewer’” (p. 196), a concept which anyone who had no more than a slight grasp on the concept of writing could figure out for themselves.
Zinsser does hit on one fine point, though—he does not hesitate to note that the critic should be considerably more intelligent than the reader. One should not be limited to writing for simple minds—those who cannot understand intelligent art criticism probably wouldn’t understand art anyway.
By James Spica
To be completely frank, William Zinsser’s “Writing About the Arts” (ch.18 of On Writing Well) is a bland introductory read—and should be regarded only as such. All information of great import is stated, an example sited, and sights are set immediately on the next point. This is meant for the writer who sits down one day and says “I’d like to write some art criticism,” long before said writer has gone to his second-ever gallery show or writing reading. It seems as if Zinsser is writing to a child—it pains the ears of any person who has any common sense or has read even one review. This piece is for simply breaking the ice, as is noted in phrases such as “a distinction should be made between ‘critic’ and ‘reviewer’” (p. 196), a concept which anyone who had no more than a slight grasp on the concept of writing could figure out for themselves.
Zinsser does hit on one fine point, though—he does not hesitate to note that the critic should be considerably more intelligent than the reader. One should not be limited to writing for simple minds—those who cannot understand intelligent art criticism probably wouldn’t understand art anyway.
Disputes Over Doodles
By James Spica
There is a point in every artist’s life (or afterlife, as the case may be) where publishers and fans alike begin to take interest in the artist’s scrawlings; their doodles. These may be words, drawings, miffed film shorts, the list goes on. The artist must be great and renowned for this to happen—but once it does, debates as to intention and correctness of publication of scratchwork begin to arise. It is Robert Frost’s turn.
In “Editing Of Frost Notebooks In Dispute” by Motoko Rich (New York Times, January 22nd 2008), the author recounts the arguments between poetry critics and Frost scholars as to the correctness of Robert Faggen’s new publication of some of Frost’s work. There are two questions up in the air: is the translation (from scrawl to type) correct, and is it even right to publish it?
The inside thoughts and musings of an artist are interesting and exciting, as with the nature of art being at times quite arbitrary we wish to have a bit of insight into the minds of such vibrant people. Part of the intrigue is whether or not these were meant to be published—one may never know! But one must not mistake all of an artist’s doodles and scrap-work for art—it may only be the musings of a genius, which can be far more interesting.
By James Spica
There is a point in every artist’s life (or afterlife, as the case may be) where publishers and fans alike begin to take interest in the artist’s scrawlings; their doodles. These may be words, drawings, miffed film shorts, the list goes on. The artist must be great and renowned for this to happen—but once it does, debates as to intention and correctness of publication of scratchwork begin to arise. It is Robert Frost’s turn.
In “Editing Of Frost Notebooks In Dispute” by Motoko Rich (New York Times, January 22nd 2008), the author recounts the arguments between poetry critics and Frost scholars as to the correctness of Robert Faggen’s new publication of some of Frost’s work. There are two questions up in the air: is the translation (from scrawl to type) correct, and is it even right to publish it?
The inside thoughts and musings of an artist are interesting and exciting, as with the nature of art being at times quite arbitrary we wish to have a bit of insight into the minds of such vibrant people. Part of the intrigue is whether or not these were meant to be published—one may never know! But one must not mistake all of an artist’s doodles and scrap-work for art—it may only be the musings of a genius, which can be far more interesting.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Viewer Vegetation
by James Spica
We have a little time and a little hope. All the same, the first of two questions remains one of beneficiaries—who can stand the Hollywood writers’ strike, and for how long? The second, more importantly, is one of intellectual effect—will the increasing lack of television writing be directly proportional to the increase of complete drivel?
The answer to the first question is that it may be the viewers that are the main brunt of the strike, depending on the length thereof. Financially, the effect upon the studios is relatively reserved in the short term. The more significant worry is that of those who rely on new programming for daily illumination—“Oh god, what will happen in the next Gray’s?”
The unfortunate side effect to this strike is the surfacing of televised feces—script-less reality TV, intellectually devoid cartoon programming, and, of course, sports. Television, the worst possible form of stimulation, is about to get much worse—and that which is worse than the worst possible is depraved beyond measure. The strike’s eventual effect will be to turn our brains to mush of an even more putrid colour. Illumination via other activities is advised for a spell.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Trancendance and Red Paint: "Sweeney Todd: the Demon Barber of Fleet Street"
by James Spica
I can see it now—some hopeful customer walking into Home Depot with the intent of painting a piece of furniture “candy-apple red”, only to be told by an embarrassed clerk that Tim Burton has just purchased the store’s entire stock—some 8000 cans. Burton actually uses all of said red paint in “Sweeney Todd—the Demon Barber of Fleet Street.”This film, to be frank, is as “Burton” as it gets—the colors, the hues, the characters, and even the orchestration. There are those who adore his style, and those who do not, and I must unfortunately concede that love or hatred of Tim Burton’s ‘Halloween sensibilities’ will probably make or break this movie for many audience members. That being said, this is one of Burton’s most spectacular films, even when compared with well-known jewels such as “The Nightmare Before Christmas.”
Perhaps the most noteworthy aspect of the film is its superb transcendence beyond the typical filmed musical, the musical movie. It is a significant departure in a positive direction from the conventional way of filming a musical. When compared with musical film staples such as “Singing in the Rain” or “Jesus Christ Superstar”, Burton, in his use of camera angles and generally proficient cinematography, his musical orchestration (the ‘Burton Difference’ between that which is played in the orchestra pit below the stage and that which is played in a massive studio), his props and setting style, and perhaps even his casting, not only raises his film above most musical movies but to proves that he is the best possible director for a film adaptation of such a dark production. The props and settings are phenomenally detailed (the parlor behind the bakery, for instance), excepting the rather horrendous opening scene that, because of too much CGI, looks like a trailer for a video game.
As in most movies, “Sweeney” has a small handful of negative points. Those who enjoyed the film “Lords of Dogtown” for anything other than the soundtrack will find this remark to be in bad taste, but the incessant crooning of prince-valiant-skater-boy sailor will undoubtedly make many audience members wish for his demise by a fatal encounter with a steam-roller. The singing of Mrs. Lovett (Helena Bonham Carter) leaves a great deal to be desired—one may note her strong character-acting getting in the way of her singing voice. The final and most general of these negative points is the artificial sheen that seems to cover the setting in many scenes.
But for the previously mentioned ‘downers’, the humor, drama, and singing remain exciting and commendable throughout. The humor (what there is of it) is assisted by the facial expressions of the actors to the point where it is a bit further than what one might be able to see from a box in a theatre. Depending on one’s personal aesthetic, “Sweeney Todd—the Demon Barber of Fleet Street” may not be one’s favorite film, but there’s something for everyone (except children and the squeamish).
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