The Book of Eli (2010, The Hughes Brothers)

The Book of Eli looks fantastic. If there's one thing the Hughes brothers excel at, it's their sense of visual style. They can frame a shot with the best of them; and there's nothing like a post-apocalyptic landscape to provide some great cinematic opportunities. You also can't ask for a pair of better, more watchable actors than Denzel Washington and Gary Oldman.

Some of what this film suffers from is bad timing. It's essentially treading very similar ground to The Road, but the two films aren't even in the same league. The Road is a poetic, beautiful, haunting, expertly-crafted meditation on love and grief; by comparison The Book of Eli is stereotypical Hollywood schlock. And as good an actor as Denzel Washington may be, again his portrayal here can not touch the nuanced, emotion-wrecked naturalism of Viggo Mortensen's performance in The Road. Finally, after the grim, gritty, harsh reality of that film, everything that happens in Eli is laughable and sanitized.

Another part of what The Book of Eli suffers from is poor set and costume design. Mila Kunis actually turns in a fairly honest performance, but the scenes of her trekking across the desert wasteland like she's sporting Ray Bans in a Gap ad while modeling what appears to be the new fall line absolutely kills any kind of authenticity. She just doesn't have the look of someone who's been ravaged and world-worn.

Once you throw some of the credibility out of the window, what's left is a high-concept Hollywood-ized neo-Western. In that sense the film succeeds, and is relatively entertaining. But it's a shame to see actors like Washington and Oldman lending their credibility and having to swim upstream to make this into a workable B movie. There's also a twisty revelation at the end of the film which will probably come as a surprise to audiences, but which is unnecessary and doesn't add much to the proceedings, as revelatory as its intended to be.

Sure there's some mileage to be gotten from the plot hook of Oldman's character searching for a Bible as a means to lead (i.e. manipulate) the mostly-illiterate sheep in this post-apocalyptic world, but it's nothing that hasn't been tread before in things the likes of Showtime's mediocre series Jeremiah, starring Luke Perry. And the seeming set-up for a straight-to-DVD sequel starring Kunis' character doesn't help regain credibility, either.

7/10

Youth in Revolt (2010, Arteta)

The two words with which I can best describe Youth in Revolt are "likable" and "modest," which also seems to be an apt summary of Michael Cera's entire career. Here he's hit paydirt with another film adaptation of a novel beloved by the teenagers of today, the first being the recent Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist. These sorts of projects seem ideally suited to the introverted and beguiled Cera, who has a certain amount of Hollywood savvy in spite of himself.

Youth is directed by Miguel Arteta, who started his directing career with the low-budget indie Star Maps, went on to the Mike White-scripted Chuck & Buck, and finally the Jennifer Aniston picture The Good Girl, directing episodes of Freaks & Geeks, Six Feet Under, and The Office along the way; all of which is to say that Arteta has the kind of low-budget background and a facility with actors that serves him well here. The picture is loaded with capable actors, from the now-hot Zach Galifianikis, the decades-reliable Fred Willard, and industry vets like Jean Smart, Ray Liotta, and Steve Buscemi. Arteta manages to keep a lot of plates spinning while navigating the forever-rotating cast of characters and keeping them competently sharing the same general universe. But the picture has the meandering feel of a series of vignettes; some of them work better than others, most of them are at least functional, but none of them really pop.

Cera's greatest gifts as an actor are simplicity, honesty, modesty, and self-doubt. He's easy to like, to identify with, and to root for. Yet there's a passivity inherent in his persona as well. This can play quite successfully given the world of the film around him, probably as a result of his simple emotional truth and sincerity; and Cera's made a lot of very smart choices in the films he's chosen to do so far that capitalizes on all of this. Yet, he's only playing a few notes, and as well as he may play them, there's quite a bit of repetitiveness in this narrow field of play.

To win the girl of his dreams in Youth in Revolt, Cera's Nick Twisp realizes he's a nebbish victim in over his head, and in a semi-psychotic break creates the persona of Francois Dillinger to appeal to French-obsessed ingenue Sheeni Saunders. Francois sports a little wispy facial hair, smokes cigarettes, and affects some aloof disdain for authority. Yet for all of Twisp's wide-eyed shock and befuddlement, the alter ego is really never more than Twisp himself with a backbone. Cera underplays the Francois character in almost exactly the same way he underplays every role. So many opportunities with the character are lost, not the least of which, and the most obvious, is a thick French accent. In trying to seduce someone as stereotypically French-fetishizing as Sheeni Saunders, that accent is without a doubt the first place Nick Twisp would go. Yet it's conspicuously absent.

This is only one small observation, yet indicative of the failings of Youth in Revolt as a whole, as well as of Michael Cera's current career trajectory. Both manage to modestly get the job done in an understated, unassuming, and often charming way. Yet there's so much unmined potential that any kind of success can only be minor, and far from wholly fulfilling.

6/10

Daybreakers (2010, The Spierig Brothers)

I was suitably impressed when I saw the Spierig brothers' previous directorial effort, the low-budget, sci-fi, Aussie cult-hit Undead. It was chock full of cliche, and it couldn't ultimately escape the boundaries of its limited budget, but there was a lot of energy, creativity, and vision behind it. I remember thinking to myself that it would be really interesting to see what these guys would do with a better cast and more money. As it turns out, Daybreakers is not the film to answer that question.

Somehow the brothers managed to score Ethan Hawke and Willem Dafoe for their second feature, and the first one to get a stateside and international release. Sam Neill is along for the ride as well, likely showing a little Australian patriotism in support of these budding homegrown visionaries. And while Daybreakers isn't without its inspired touches or moments of brilliance, the end product is much in the same vein as Undead-- a showcase for their potential that never really delivers in its own right. Perhaps just as they did their own effects work and wore several different hats on Undead, Daybreakers largely functioned as a training ground for the Spierigs to get their feet wet working with a larger budget and more toys. Perhaps their next film will truly deliver on their developing potential.

The easy hook is that Daybreakers looks like The Matrix... with vampires. There are similar themes: a futuristic world overrun where human are used as batteries; except that in this future the humans aren't feeding a giant computer program, but a world overtaken by vampires. One of the plot twists revealed in the trailers, that of a vampire scientist fighting on behalf of the humans against his people and eventually transformed into one of them, who then fights alongside them against the corrupt world he's escaped from, is not only a genre-bender never really seen before, but also rife with metaphor. Racism, sexism, homophobia, or classism... pick your -ism and let the metaphor work for you, particularly in a corporate-run world with dwindling resources. All presented against a slick futuristic backdrop with cool vampires. It seems as though the Spierig brothers had captured both of the required elements for lightning in a bottle: a blockbuster high-concept fueled with social relevance.

But as soon as Daybreakers begins, it's obvious that the Spierig brothers have made the film with an aesthetic half outside of mainstream appeal. The film employs the use of blue filters, perhaps to emulate The Matrix's green filters, but the end result doesn't play out quite the same way. Instead, Daybreakers is cold and sterile and somewhat flaccid. And where The Matrix hit the ground running with action and suspense, even in the way it built the narrative at the beginning, Daybreakers starts slowly, with little dialogue and less action, taking its time introducing characters and exploring its world with a very understated, introverted, and meditative pace.

There's still no doubt that the Spierig brothers are visionaries; the framing and cinematography look fantastic. And they obviously work well with their actors. There's one or two inspired, if brief, set-pieces, and another few sharp ideas (vampires driving cars in the daylight with the use of cameras and computer screens). But the Spierigs still haven't figured out how to balance their ideas or pace themselves. They try to do both too much and not enough at the same time. On the one hand, they spend a lot of time creating humanizing, three-dimensional characterizations that aren't simply black and white, but are chock full with gray areas. But just as with Undead, as the film's reels unspool and the brothers near the end of their alotted running time, they employ a hurry-up-and-finish-it technique that oversimplifies everything they've built along the way. Suddenly complexities are left by the wayside, characters are jettisoned and forgotten, and the plot is streamlined, undercutting some of its previous intelligence. Perhaps the brothers need to start their process by trying to do less and leaving room to grow as their story builds, or planning in terms of multi-film epics where they can evolve their narrative without the need for a third-act retcon that oversimplifies and undercuts. Either way, they need to safeguard against their tendency to continue developing detail until so far into the running time that an ending requires the desperate act of a fisherman reeling in a fish more powerful than his rod, one that ultimately requires him to throw the rod aside and whip out a baseball bat. The Spierigs obviously have all of the tools and all of the puzzle pieces assembled; now it's simply a case of putting everything together and taking the world by storm with a bonafide masterpiece.

6/10

The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus (2009, Gilliam)

The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus is vintage Gilliam and shares much in common with his previous work, yet at the end of the day it's a minor effort from the director. What makes the film such a curiosity is the passing of lead actor Heath Ledger before principal shooting was completed. As with most of Gilliam's movies, there's a fantastical component to Parnassus, both in the very nature of the story itself, and the fact that there's a fantasy world, in this case the consciousness of Doctor Parnassus, that can be entered through a magical mirror in his traveling sideshow. Serendipitously, Ledger died after completing all of his scenes taking place outside the world of the mirror. But as he enters the mirror several times throughout the course of the story, each time accompanying a different civilian mark, Gilliam was able to create a workaround using several different actors (Johnny Depp, Colin Farrell, and Jude Law) to portray the version of Ledger's character as seen by each of the civilians that enters the mirror with Ledger's Tony. In fact, the film works even better as a result, layering on themes of identity that wouldn't have existed otherwise, and providing more depth to both the character and the film itself.

While Ledger does give an inspired performance, without these necessary casting adjustments the final version of Parnassus would have been even more of a minor effort than this final version. At the end of the day, the narrative is on the thin side and lacks any real meat; most of what gives the film its substance is subtext. The film is obviously also intended as a memorial to Ledger, and in that case the film succeeds admirably. Anyone who followed the story behind the production in the wake of Ledger's death knows how Gilliam had to reinvent the film, recast scenes, and conjure Parnassian magic himself to retain financing and complete production. And the evidence of the love behind the tribute is all over the finished film, including the film's credits and dedication. If nothing else, the completed film is a heartfelt love letter to Ledger's talent and charisma, and a glimpse of the promise of a further career that could have been.

As is the case with most of Gilliam's films, the world of Parnassus is fantastical, rooted in fable, and has a carnival-inspired logic, sensibility, and sense of design. There's also a murky timelessness about it; even though the film is obviously set in modern times, it could easily be taking place hundreds of years ago when this kind of traveling sideshow may have been more commonplace. In fact, part of the fun is seeing how Parnassus manages to just barely keep operating on the fringes of society, and the parallels drawn between certain contemporary elements and their ancestral parallels had the film been set hundreds of years in the past. The more things change, the more they stay the same; which is a theme that both Gilliam and Parnassus seem to understand all too well, yet at the cost of existing in a contemporary world currently blinded to certain universal truths. It's quite obvious that Gilliam the filmmaker is represented here by Parnassus, and that like Parnassus, Gilliam feels himself to be in the death-throes of his career, a master of an outdated style of creativity and craftsmanship that is no longer appreciated and in many cases, even invisible, to a world increasingly obsessed with the technological revolution and its own dehumanization. But for one last show, Gilliam has given us some brilliant visuals that stand up with the best of his work, and the reminder that even though current society may be looking in a different direction, everything is cyclical and everything is ultimately eternal.

While the audience may be looking most intensely as Ledger and his performance, he really ends up being a supporting player. The other performances are universally strong, from Christopher Plummer to newcomer Lily Cole, who credits Ledger with teaching her what acting is truly about. There's no doubt that her performance would have been far less nuanced without his influence. And as charismatic as Ledger is, Andrew Garfield manages to somehow steal almost every scene away from Ledger in a role that is, on the page, not showy in the least. Stripped of the added dimensions from Ledger's passing, Garfield is the real emerging star of Parnassus.

But finally, while Parnassus is a must-see for Ledger fans and essentially functions to legendize the actor, as a piece of cinema it's one of Gilliam's lesser efforts. On display are all of Gilliam's strengths and what has made him such a creative and masterful director over the years, and certainly the themes are food for thought and particularly relevant to Gilliam at this stage of his career. Yet stripped of Ledger's passing and the resultant production hurdles and solutions, as well as the parallels to Gilliam's similar struggles on past efforts such as The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, the narrative of Parnassus itself is rather thin and on the weak side. Parnassus is much like Ledger's presence in the film: concentrated, well-crafted, but not as substantial as one might desire or hope.

7/10

The White Ribbon (2009, Haneke)

The first compliment you have to pay to Haneke's The White Ribbon is that it looks gorgeous. It's the kind of glorious black and white cinematography that harks back to the best of Ingmar Bergman. The high contrast of black and white, as well as the sharp framing and strong visual direction, create the perfect sense of clinical sterility for Haneke's aesthetic. And then the plot begins to unravel with a series of accidents in this picturesque, pre-World War I German village. There's a sense of foreboding, brooding, and danger. And as Haneke tells his tale and the accidents build on one another, related in, again, almost clinical fashion... one thing is certain: the children are evil. In fact, I felt like I was watching a more meditative and lyrical companion piece to Village of the Damned.

And in many ways, that's kind of the heart of the film. But instead of science fiction, we're treated to a study of and exploration into, perhaps not evil, but certainly aberrant psychology and the way strong patriarchal authoritarianism can erode and decay over generations, mutating from some kind of moral, religious, healthy, and helpful code of behavior and twisting into something perverse and amoral. And Haneke, through the voice-over of the village's schoolteacher, frames this as an explanation of subsequent Nazism. Yet, in typical Haneke fashion, this voice-over established by a character we come to like and trust eventually abandons us without really drawing much of a conclusion to the proceedings. It's a film without an epilogue, or a thesis paper without much of a conclusion. To confuse matters even more, Haneke peoples the village with not only the likable schoolteacher to provide a counterpoint to the authoritative baron and pastor and rapist, incestuous doctor; but also with ingenue Eva, her stern yet fair father, and the pastor's youngest son Gustav, who clearly has a very healthy and positive relationship with his father that is 180 degrees the opposite of some of his brothers and sisters.

So while there's a poison in the village that's fermenting from generation to generation and across the class system, Haneke muddies the waters of his own argument. There's true compassion, understanding, and tenderness between Gustav and his father in his efforts to save a wounded bird; and a carriage ride into the country for a picnic lunch between the school teacher and Eva calls to mind Bergman's idyllic Smiles of a Summer Night, and the respect the school teacher shows his tentative ingenue is heartfelt. Even in the sternness with which the pastor disciplines his most worrisome children, we see the loving intention behind it, and a confusion and inability on the pastor's part to create any kind of effective discipline for his children who may simply have been born damned and evil. He can't even see the degree of twisted perversion in front of him and the degree of heinousness of his childrens' crimes; he's still living blindly in a pastoral existence where the worst crime he can conceive is his children being late for dinner, and his belief that if he can only teach them to value and blindly and whole-heartedly obey puritanical, Protestant, and patriarchal, moral codes... righteousness and goodness will decidedly follow. Along these same lines, another of the pastor's sons, Martin, even seems to absolve his father with the admission that he's simply evil in the way he offers God the opportunity to disempower him and kill him if his aberrant behavior and desires aren't natural and God-given.

What we're effectively left with is an argument of nature vs. nurture, and one that presents both sides of the equation while not offering much of a solution. In true Haneke fashion, the initial offering of an explanation and solution is subverted, and instead the audience is left only with a very ordered and detailed list of atrocities, evidence of both the success and complete failure of a society's system of governance, as well as the wild card of genetic morality or immorality, and finally, a boatload of questions with no clear answers. But that, in essence, is the genius of Haneke. Instead of wrapping things up with a final reel and a pat answer, his films turn the theme back to the audience itself for thought, meditation, and discussion. Likely extremely frustrating to those who like their answers spoon-fed to them, but Haneke is an expert at this style of cinematic sleight-of-hand and audience confrontation. And The White Ribbon finds him in top form, working with pristine yet lush visuals and an exceptionally talented cast. To call on Bergman's name one last time, what ultimately makes this film so effective, powerful, and likely timeless, is the way Haneke gets such naturalistic, Bergman-esque performances from his actors, places them in such an evocative, picturesque setting, and then counterpoints it with such sharp, stark visuals and his masterful sense of clinical detachment.

10/10