American Psycho

American Psycho (Mary Harron, 2000) 

[Bateman] was crazy the same way [I was]. He did not come out of me sitting down and wanting to write a grand sweeping indictment of yuppie culture. It initiated because of my own isolation and alienation at a point in my life. I was living like Patrick Bateman. I was slipping into a consumerist kind of void that was supposed to give me confidence and make me feel good about myself but just made me feel worse and worse and worse about myself. That is where the tension of American Psycho came from. It wasn't that I was going to make up this serial killer on Wall Street. High concept. Fantastic. It came from a much more personal place, and that's something that I've only been admitting in the last year or so. I was so on the defensive because of the reaction to that book that I wasn't able to talk about it on that level.

Bret Easton Ellis' controversial 1991 novel "American Psycho" received damning reviews and protests, even boycotts. It's depictions of violence against women— and violence against anybody—was condemned left, right and center, while its look at toxic masculinity, and toxic consumerism was pretty much dismissed as trying to apply a sociological band-aid for what was essentially slasher-porn. The violence in the book buried any consideration of what the book might be saying about a personality so self-involved that it surpassed pathology. 

But, why should this be surprising? Anthony Burgess' "A Clockwork Orange" and Stanley Kubrick's film of it are more talked about for its violent aspects and cruelty rather than the very real—and extreme—considerations about free will and attempts to dampen it, even if for the greater good. The message gets lost in the illustration of the worst case scenario.

The thing is Patrick Bateman, Ellis' "Psycho" protagonist (played by Christian Bale in the film version by Mary Harron), is a misanthrope, much like that other "Psycho," Norman Bates—it's just he's better dressed, more stylish, has a better job, and is on an upward track to being what is considered successful in America. Sure, the surface-flash may be attractive...to some...but the festering pit of soullessness and heartlessness that serve as competitive spirit in his career as an investment banker is only somewhat more lethal than the motivations of Jordan Belfort, Leonardo DeCaprio's character in Wolf of Wall Street—sociopath or psychopath, they're just two paths to getting what you want, without regard to others, and the destruction, seen or unseen, left in the wake of success.

At about the same time as Ellis' novel, there was another, Chuck Palahniuk's "Fight Club," that also examined the American path to success where the protagonist's hollow consumerism started to so weigh on him that he started beating himself up over it and, when that movie was made in 1999, nobody missed the point...even when it led him to an act of terrorism that resembled the 9/11 attacks two years later. Everybody cherry-picks when they have a point to prove. "Fight Club" was also seen by some as a model for males to return to a form of rugged primacy to avoid consumerist emasculation. And yet he doesn't live in a cave, but a luxury condo, and not independent in any form. One can see this in AP's use of extreme grooming and high-fashion one-upmanship. The guy gets upset when someone has a better designed calling card than he does. He merely wants to win by any means necessary.

Now, I'm not going to get political here (as I was when I first started writing this thing LAST Hallowe'en season), but one can see where this is going. Let's just say I've always rejected the sentiment that "Winning isn't everything; it's the only thing"—attributed to Vince Lombardi (who would hedge on it), but actually coined by Red Sanders (I guess "winning" depends on your press agent). You can win AND lose, it's just depends on what goals you're looking at. Ellis was making a philosophical point and has said of the film version that it "doesn't really work as a movie." Perhaps it's all just a vision in his head, rather than committing actual acts. But, the impulse is there. We've seen it. It happens. Some righteous synapse gets snapped, or diverted, turning an American Dream into an American Nightmare.

 

The question is: of what use is a "cautionary tale" when it's already here?

Monsters vs. Aliens

Okay, I know this isn't a horror film. It's an animated comedy for kids...but it has monsters and aliens and the monsters are based on actual horror movie monsters, so.... 

Written at the time of the film's release...

 

"The Ginormica Monologues" 

It's the perfect wedding day for Susan Murphy (voice of Reese Witherspoon, cracked on the boil): she has the perfect dress, the perfect church, and the perfect groom in fat-headed weatherman Derek Dietl (Paul Rudd). But it's all in the timing.  

Just after a little pre-nuptial spat about honeymooning in Paris or Fresno, the bride-to-be gets squashed by a meteorite. At the altar, everyone comments that she's positively glowing...but...glowing green! Then, she goes from meteoric to all metaphoric, by growing enormously, dwarfing her puny groom and scientifically smashing the church to splinters. I kept waiting for the parents to say "our little girl's grown up!" but no such luck.*

Pretty soon, the Army led by General W.R. Monger (a gruff Kiefer Sutherland, having fun) fires hypodermics in her butt and Gulliver her to the ground, where she awakens in one of those cavernous U.S. installations we only wish we had, with a bunch of other monsters Monger's captured since the atomic testing days of the 50's. There's the Missing Link (Will Arnett), a Blob named B.O.B. (Seth Rogen in a bit of typecasting), and the insane Dr. Cockroach (Hugh Laurie), as well as a giant Japanese moth creature called Insectizoid. Kept prisoners by the government, they are finally called out as a last resort when Aliens, led by the evil Galaxhar (Rainn Wilson, like you've never heard him) attack the U.S. ("...they only seem to ever attack here,"** intones a Brokawed-paletted news anchor) after humiliating the President (Stephen Colbert...typecasting again).

Dreamworks and the directors (Conrad Vernon and Rob Letterman of Shrek 2 and Shark Tale, respectively) do a nice job of plumbing the envelope of the monster-crowd giving us versions of Mothra, the Fly, the Blob, The Creature from the Black Lagoon and the 50 ft. Woman, and instilling the politically correct message that these aren't monsters but "special" people...er, things...entities (whatever). Indeed, the entire movie plays like a therapy session for Susan to embrace her empowerment and not to see her change as an accident of Nature, so much as...a happy accident of Nature. Hey, empowerment is empowerment even if you do go up 30 dress-sizes. 

The animation? Extraordinarily simplistic in a weird way. Susan looks like one of those big-eyed Keane children, and most of the men seem to be variations of Nixon (except for Derek, who looks uncannily like Conan O'Brien). The monsters are varying body-types and primary colors, so you can tell who's who when they're flitting across the screen (which they do a lot). 

Still, there is good planning going on, so one is never at a loss for where one is, and where the danger lies. In a totally made-up universe that can be a problem. And the 3-D effects are impressive, starting with a Dreamworks logo gag (heh), and a gratuitous paddle-ball sequence, although the 3-D-ness, sometimes comes off as having the dimensions of a pop-up book. But, the process has come a long way, and is frequently, deliberately eye-popping. It's not enough to recommend seeing it in theaters, though, so hopefully when it comes to DVD, they'll include the 3-D version, with glasses.

* ...and I'll bet the attendess threw puffed rice, (badum-bump!)

** Personally, I think it has to do with our Immigration Policy. "Okay, you can destroy the Golden Gate Bridge...once, but promise you'll never do it again and we'll consider granting you amnesty."\

Mud

Written at the time of the film's release....although I've added a couple of current addendums because this writer-director is so good and his work sought out.

Possession is 9/10 of the Law
or
Lookin' for Love in All the Wrong Places

The last film that Jeff Nichols wrote and directed was the very interesting, very odd, and quite layered Take Shelter.*  His latest, Mud, is part coming-of-age movie, part Southern Gothic, part classic romance and part tragedy and complete curiosity. It features a couple of great kid performances and a top-tier cast supporting them.

Tye Sheridan and Jacob Lofland play two tweeners living on the Mississippi River. They're a couple of restless kids who are hired help in their families, but with minimal supervision, have the freedom to sneak out at night exploring. On one of those pre-dawn excursions they motor over to an island and find a wonder—a boat nestled in a tree. Checking it out, they're in for a shock. Someone's living there. 

That someone is Mud (Matthew McConaughey) who is eking out an existence there. How he got there is a mystery. Why he's there is not. He's killed a man, who was messing with the girl he loves, and that man has a powerful family (led by Joe Don Baker). He's hiding out, waiting for word from Juniper (Reese Witherspoon), and when he hears, they'll run off together, where...well, that's a little unspecific. 

In the meantime, he uses the little go-betweeners to get food, supplies, and word out, that includes to one of Ellis' (Sheridan) neighbors, a solitary man named Tom Blankenship (Sam Shepard), who Mud labels "an assassin." Blankenship calls Mud a liar, making Ellis slightly conflicted; he's willing to do anything for Mud in his quixotic quest, out of a young man's puppy-love instincts, in part a response to the fracturing marriage of his parents (Ray McKinnon, Sarah Paulson) and his own interactions with "townie" girls, particularly May Pearl (Bonnie Sturdivant).

It's to Ellis' advantage that he and "Neckbone" (Lofland) are under the radar of everybody's notice, his parents have other concerns and Neckbone's uncle (Michael Shannon) is in his own little world, so the two boys go back and forth between mainland and island with messages and supplies, which becomes increasingly complex when Mud decides he's going to get that boat out of the tree. And when Ellis, in his come-to-the-rescue way, interferes when one of the goons keeping an eye on Juniper gets aggressive with her trying to get information about Mud's whereabouts.

Things begin to spiral out of control to a conclusion that can't come to any good, despite everyone's best and worst intentions, due to the breaking of borders between the insular natures of the players.

But, there's something else going on here that creeps like an adder through the Louisiana swamp, something to do with misogyny. Maybe it's just the timing of events—not accidental as it's all in the control of the writer-director—but all the problems seem to generate from the war between men and women. The women here—Juniper, Ellis' mom, May Pearl—have an edge of capriciousness and undependability (in the males' eyes, anyway) that derails their plans and dreams. 

The men are hardly blameless, going through their lives with their eyes wide shut, totally aware that the women in their lives may prove disastrous in the short term, while they're quixotically playing the hero or the rescuer, anyway. Everybody has some romantic view of life that is not theirs, and their pursuit of it proves their undoing. One leaves the theater with the sense of a good story well told, but with a stake through the heart in the futility of good intentions. One wants the waters of life to be smooth and transparent, but the reality of it is that it's the consistency of the movie's title.

It's a beautiful film, too. Beautifully shot by Adam Stone. 

2021 note: Nichols hasn't made a film since this one and that's a real shame. He's been working on one film, but has been hired by John Krasinski to make A Quiet Place, Part III. Well, whatever gets him back behind the camera. His work is too good not to be making something. Whatever it is, it is of worth.

* I should mention here in 2021 that he's also made a couple other film's I've loved—2016's Midnight Special and the same year, Loving.

Water for Elephants

Written at the time of the film's release...

"To Talent and Illusion..."
or
"Jacob Jankowski, The Only"

Really, there's nothing too special about Water for Elephants, other than it's a well-told tale that doesn't treat its audience like they're idiots, showing you things that happen, rather than showing you and having some helpful person with a grasp of the obvious tell you what you're seeing. This is nice. And before the film goes South in its last third, it's a cut above your standard romance story. Told in flashback (the framing sequence features Hal Holbrook  and Paul Schneider and I could've used a lot more of them), it's mostly a period piece set in 1931 during the days of Prohibition of a young veterinary student, Jacob Jankowski (Robert Pattinson), who must drop out due to circumstances of Fate.  Without inheritance and no foreseeable future, he hitches a ride on a passing train and barely escapes being tossed off it.

In the morning, in a lovely shot that moves out of the freight car he's been sleeping in, he discovers he's hitched his way into the circus—the Berzini Brothers circus, specifically, a down-on-its-luck travelling menagerie of animals and people just one rung up from them trying to eke out an existence during the dark days of the Depression. He finds temporary work mucking out the cages but it isn't too long before his veterinary skills make him indispensable to the inscrutable owner August (Christoph Waltz, finally finding a project worthy of his talents) and his main attraction, a stunt equestrienne named Marlene (Reese Witherspoon, all platinum blonded and permed, almost resembling Madeline Kahn).

It doesn't take a genius to know where this is going, but director Francis Lawrence (I Am Legend—the best parts of his movies seem to involve animals) manages to make it interesting before the romantic sub-plot kicks in. Until then, Water for Elephants is quite interesting in its portrayal of carny life amidst the human mis-fits. Things become very interesting when August, picking among the scraps of a dead circus—one of the many that are going broke during the hard economic times—finds his new star attraction, onto whose hide he pins all of the circus' economic hopes—a bull pachyderm named Rosie. Dismissed by its previous owner as being none-too-bright, it is Jankowski's job to take care of and train the elephant to become the star of the show, aided and abetted by Marlene. Where August is content to just beat the animal into compliance, Jankowski develops a bond with the beast, throwing him at odds with the ring-master and closer to the woman.

I remember working at a radio station in a small town when a circus set up stakes in the same parking lot of the local Montgomery Wards' the station perched on. Walking out the studios' back door led you straight to the holding area for the elephants and I would spend my lunch hours, watching them rock back and forth, their only restraint being a coil of rope around their foot and the memory of the chain that used to be there. I could never tell whether that huge elephant was content, bored or crazy, but I knew that it was huge, that it could have taken me out, and maybe the station and maybe the Monkey Ward's, given the time, inclination and a substantial telephone pole. But for now, it was content to watch me watching it, and swaying, forever swaying—something to do before the food arrived. Was it the elephant version of rocking in the corner, or was it dancing?

I thought about that elephant a lot during Water for Elephants and what was in its mind as I sat watching it while it watched me.  I wondered where it is now and if it remembered the kid that sat contemplating it on those hot Summer days.  Probably not.  But, I remembered it, as well as a couple of the actors appearing in this movie that I'd worked with and admired (Good work on their parts, and I noted how they'd made something more of their small parts that didn't require the breadth of their talents—nice stuff, Scott and John).  Everybody's good in it and I was amused that more attention seemed to be paid lighting Pattinson than Witherspoon—that might please his fan-base.

But, as I said...nothing too special, although there is solid work throughout, and not too unlike a circus—a pleasant diversion that manages to take you away from the real destruction going on in the real world.

Inherent Vice

Marijuana Jones and the Curse of the Golden Fang
or
"What's Up, Doc?" 

I've never smoked dope. Never been tempted and probably never will be (despite living in one of the—first—two states to legalize its recreational use). When asked why (usually by someone who has and is saying more about themselves than actually caring about the reason) my standard answer is: "The world doesn't need me any more paranoid."

It's a nice laugh line, but it's also true—the world doesn't necessarily need me any more paranoid, but I certainly don't need myself to be. I'm paranoid enough as it is.*

Which brings us to the central conceit of Inherent Vice—a film noir about a stoner detective.**  The thing about film noir (the term—meaning "black film"—coined by French film critics for the pulpy paranoid ambiguously moral post-war films that had a cynical edge to them) is that they're set in a Universe—ours, unfortunately—where unseen forces are in control of things to the detriment of the people too busy with their ordinary lives to notice something wrong.  The best description I've read of film noir is it depicts a world where "the streets are dark with something more than night."***

Precisely. There are things more black than night...especially when it comes to the motivations and the souls of men, the stuff of those "detective" stories with long shadows running through them that hide evil from detection and provide a cloak for those wanting to remain anonymous and invisible.

So, we have a stoner detective, already a little paranoid in how the world works under the influence, operating in the film noir world promoting paranoia on the not-so-grand scale. Seems a natural. ****  And Thomas Pynchon used it for "...Vice," his most accessible novel to date. Paul Thomas Anderson has made a film of it.

I'm not the biggest fan of Paul Thomas Anderson. He's a critical darling (like Quentin Tarantino, but at least P.T. isn't such a snorter of other people's material) which makes me suspicious of him. I rarely find him consistently entertaining, but his films are always interesting...well, filled with interesting ideas, bridged by some meandering sections and extended diversions that test the patience of the viewer. He is, however, never afraid to take on a challenge, even if the reach exceeds his grasp, which is always worth supporting. The works of Thomas Pynchon have never been filmed before...because they are nothing if not a challenge...and his novel of "Inherent Vice" is as close to being movie material as he has come.

It tells the story of LA P.I. Larry "Doc" Sportello (Joaquin Phoenix) who is tasked by ex-girlfriend Shasta Fay Hepworth (Katherine Waterston) with the finding of her current lover Michael Wolfmann (Eric Roberts) who has gone missing. Shasta suspects foul play—not hard to figure out since Wolfmann's wife (Serena Scott Thomas) and her current lover have asked for her cooperation with the enticement of reward, and she's laying low—staying untraceable, just in case.

Doc is not exactly a high roller (although he could easily fit one of those terms separately), having his office in an L.A. free-clinic. Almost immediately, clues start coming in about Wolfmann and his disappearance, and Doc find life getting complicated. His first recce/sortie is to a future Wolfmann development site, which is currently the site for a double-wide "massage parlor" where Doc is knocked unconscious and awakens next to the dead body of Wolfmann's body-guard (or we should say former bodyguard), surrounded by squad cars and the loaded guns of their occupants, led by the humorless presence of Lt. Det. Christian F. "Bigfoot" Bjornsen (Josh Brolin), who, along with being a part-time actor, has a checkered history with Doc.

Doc is questioned as a key-witness to the murder, before his lawyer Sauncho Silax, Esq (Benicio Del Toro) shows up to advise (despite specializing in maritime law) and spring him. Doc drifts from person of interest to person of interest—a crack Mom (Jena Malone), her "disappeared" husband (played by Owen Wilson, so obviously he's not disappeared), former clients, white supremacist groups, black activists, a drug cartel called "The Golden Fang," and a society of dentists. Clearly, there's safety in numbers and it's tough out there for a lone wolf like Doc. With all the covert operations and secret societies, professional or otherwise, it only lends to the paranoia associated with the noir world, obscured in shadow and fog, but also by Doc's personal purple haze.

Another aspect of the noir that Pynchon has hit on is the unresolved loose threads of post-war versions. Ever since Chandler and Howard Hawks' presentation of The Big Sleep***** has been the apparent lack of attention to details. Mystery aficionados and fans of Dame Agatha do not appreciate the victims who fall through the cracks, and it can be frustrating for regular audiences, too ("Wait a minute...what happened to....?"). Few questions are answered in Inherent Vice to a consistent degree. This may mar any entertainment value for the casual viewer—you'll also find the tone of the thing different from the comedy tone of the trailer; it's more of a peculiarity than a comedy.

These guys should do a movie together...maybe with music.

Still, I took pleasure in the final shot where Doc is driving through the night, the headlights of the cars behind him illuminating the suspicious squint in his eyes—as fine a visual representation of the mood of noir as I've seen.

Inherent Vice is also the first movie that genuinely gave me the munchies.

* The oldest joke I remember on the subject is "It's a wonder I'm NOT paranoid, what with the whole world against me and everything..."

** Nope.  Don't bring up comparisons to The Big Lebowski, even though its plot resembles that of the Dean of detective novels, Raymond Chandler. Jeff Bridges' "Dude" is not a detective, so much as a righteous man seeking revenge.

*** Raymond Chandler, again, from 1950's "The Simple Art of Murder."

**** I've always wanted to see a production of "Harvey" updated so that Dowd, "Elwood P," doesn't see puca's because of booze, but because of hallucinogens.  I've always imagined Jack Nicholson as Dowd.

***** There is the story where Humphrey Bogart asked Hawks who killed the chauffeur and Hawks couldn't tell him, nor could the screenwriters.  They wired Chandler who claimed it was one character and Hawks remembered that character was someplace else.  "I don't know," said Chandler.

Wild (2014)

Cheryl Strayed On the Path
or
You'll Never Walk Alone

As you get older, you realize that you run the risk of walking a grooved track, well-worn and familiar. You can, literally, get yourself in a rut. The more you walk it, the deeper, you go—that is, the groove in the trail gets deeper, you don't necessarily go farther. The longer you walk it, the deeper it becomes, and you lose the perspective of the path, and it only gets harder to get out of it. The resolution is to find a different path, fresh yet unfamiliar, to go forward and to get where you need to go.

I've done some hiking (so I'm an expert for this movie, right?) and even gone on a pilgrimage or two. Even if you're walking with a group, it's a solitary exercise, making you aware of your surroundings, but, more profoundly, of yourself. You become more aware, often painfully, of your body on the journey. Each step, of the thousands you make, giving you feedback on how you're doing, updating you about your condition, the muscles in your legs, the blisters on your feet, the grooves in your shoulders made by the burden you carry. Mentally, you carry burdens, too, that in your solitude with no ability to confront them, you let them go. The mind fills with memories, stray thoughts, snippets of song and life that un-spool, keeping you company on the long journey of the path and the mind.

Wild, the new film by Jean-Marc Vallée (who made last year's The Dallas Buyer's Club) captures more than any movie I've seen the parallel tracks of road and mind that you encounter when you walk alone. Based on the memoir of Cheryl Strayed (née Nyland), it chronicles her (in the form of Reese Witherspoon, who also produced) taking on the Pacific Crest Trail after her life spiraled out of control following the death of her mother, Bobby (Laura Dern) at the age of 45.

We start at the low-point of the trip, at the top of a mountain. The view is gorgeous, awesome, intimidating. Cheryl's focus, however, is on her feet, specifically the right one. A too-loose pair of boots causes her feet to slide around in them, despite the cushioning of her dense socks. The toe-nail on her big toe is loose, so she makes the decision to pull it out (by comparison, it took James Franco 127 Hours—and 3/4 of that film to cut off his arm). The intense pain causes her to knock over her monstrous back-pack which kicks her boot—the right one, of course—into the ravine and out of sight. She freaks out, horrified, at the idea of retrieving it in bare feet. She screams at the Universe, then throws her other boot into the ravine, doubling her problem.

She probably could have saved herself a few hundred miles right there; she's got impulse control problems. In which case, every painful step she takes is a repudiation of her instincts.

The film starts there, then bounces back and forth in time and space along the trail (including the moments and life-choices that got her there). = Fleeting moments along the way recall the flashbacks and as she walks along snippets of song echo ghost-like in her head, along the lines of Springsteen's "Tougher Than The Rest,"  Wings' "Let 'Em In," "Homeward Bound," by Simon and Garfukle. The one that shows up the most is Los Incas' melancholy version of "El Condor Pasa," lyricised by Simon and Garfunkle to evoke want, basic life-choices and becoming. Apt choices—they make nice upbeat soundtracks for trudging in the dirt.

Wild keeps to a minimum the cliché of the shot looking-down-at-your-feet as you walk, instead there are many long shots held for a time as Witherspoon makes her way slowly through the frame. Memories of songs, overlayed by her vaporous accompaniment, the flashbacks bursting in with hard cuts to reveries of her mother, her life and death, and Cheryl's response by imploding her marriage with one-night stands followed by a heroin chaser, make up the bulk of the film. Stability crumbles, her foundation shatters, therapy is a joke, relationships disappear, and the only thing that lasts is a tattoo acquired in the divorce (to mark the occasion and her right shoulder). Then, just as quickly, we're back on the trail with another obstacle or encounter. The flashbacks are shot as a combination of recollection and impression, sparked by not-too-obvious cues (refreshingly). They're random and create a puzzle of influence as to why Cheryl went off the rails and one suspects (if one is to believe Nick Hornby's screenplay) it's because she focused on her mother's views in a moment of weakness, as opposed to her everyday wisdom. At one point, Cheryl says her mother is "the love of my life." Although Hornby never provides a moment of true epiphany, the realization that life needs to be taken in the macro, rather than the micro-incidental is articulated throughout. As Hemingway wrote: "There's no one thing that's true. It's all true." It's not the steps (or mis-steps) you take, but the journey that matters.

So, yes, you can throw your boots occasionally, but the important thing is that you keep walking, no matter which direction you find yourself going.

You'll get there.

Cheryl...Strayed