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Director:
Aki Kurismäki

Starring:
Markku Peltola
Kati Outinen
Sakari Kuosmanen
Antti Reini

Release: 2 Oct. 03
IMDb

Aki Kaurismäki is one of the most internationally acclaimed filmmakers to see little American distribution of his films. Some smaller home entertainment houses and repertory events sponsored in New York have made it possible to see his films on occasion, but, like Edward Yang, only now, as his fame becomes deafening to the film enthusiast’s ear when watching coverage of last year’s Cannes Film Festival, his latest work, The Man Without a Past, makes it all the way to across the Atlantic from Finland.

I’ve only been able to see two of his films, but I’m constantly struck by what I see as an overriding absurdity that he proudly portrays in his films without losing any of the sociological or national insight he has for his people and their country. Kaurismäki is the only real hope for an international Finnish voice in film these days and his works portray his country with the right level of solemnity: loving but critical of its faults, willing to find the best laid plan for the sake of saying it.

The Man Without a Past looks at the place of the homeless in Finland and the existence of kindness in a land known mainly (at least in America) for its extremely liberal economic policy status. The film introduces its protagonist, an unnamed man called M (Peltola), as he walks off a train in Helsinki, sits down for a smoke and a nap, and is brutally attacked by some young thugs who steal most of his belongings and leave him to die of multiple head wounds. And yet when M wakes a few days later, he is in a hospital, flat-lining, already presumed dead, and wrapped up like a mummy. He sits up, rips the cords out of his body, and snaps his broken nose back into place. It’s such an unusual scene, Lazarus by way of the Gulf of Bothnia, that one cannot help but smile.

At this point, barely 10 minutes into The Man Without a Past, it seems like there are no good people to be found in Helsinki. As if to underline this, a napping M (at this point, a smart man would quit sleeping) is robbed of his shoes by another homeless drifter. But soon all this changes: a local family gives him a place to stay and feeds him, a security guard with a capitalist’s perspective, rents him some ‘oceanfront’ property (it’s really just a view of a very dirty canal), and he gets a job at the local Salvation Army, where a romantic double (Outinen) also works.

What is most important in this story is the way people relate to M, both good and bad. Although these Helsinki citizens have little for him when he’s in the city (and walking to the outskirts), the people outside the city, with their recognition of man’s personal, non-negotiable riches, are unimaginably good people without diverting into Happy Land Capra stereotypes. Many have recognized the film as Kaurismäki’s homage to the 1950s cinema of both America and Finland (my knowledge of the Finnish national cinema at that time -- or, for that matter, today -- is too lacking to fully comment on this) thanks to a jazzy, nostalgic feel that seems weirdly akin to the work of Jim Jarmusch (you almost expect M’s jukebox, one of his few pieces of furniture, to include “I’ve Got a Spell on You”), and the cinematography by Timo Salminen.

Given these comments on a 1950s-style comedy, I see bits of social commentary cinema in there. Though not on the preachy train of, say, I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang, the film does involve much of its story with the subjugation of the lower classes and the effects of an urban, materialist mentality. This is not a truly liberal film, but it comes from a liberal country with a liberal mindset, something that cannot be overlooked in considering Kauriskäki’s work. M is not the everyman, but he is the realization of the materialist put back into the real throngs of society, the poor and the indentured. Adding a bit of Chaplin to the end, the film couldn’t feel more at home with its un-intrusive politics and tone, two things that feel like little more than an additive to the Finnish accent.

Director:
Rob Reiner

Starring:
Luke Wilson
Kate Hudson
Sophie Marceau
David Paymer
Alexander Wauthier
Leili Kramer
Rop Taylor

Release: 20 Jun. 03
IMDb

Towards the beginning of Alex & Emma, director Rob Reiner, making his requisite appearance as a book editor, tells the protagonist, Alex (Wilson), that his life story of love, gambling, and crime should make a great novel. This is doubtful considering that it doesn’t even make a mediocre film.

Playing meta-film as an exercise in exasperation, the film tells the story of Alex, a supposedly great novelist suffering from writer’s block on his second novel, trying to pay back his Cuban loan sharks within 30 days by forging ahead with the novel even though all he had was a sentence written when the shylarks destroyed his laptop. Enter Emma (Hudson), a frumpy stenographer who agrees to take dictation of the entire work in Alex’s apartment. As one might suspect, a love affair soon follows.

This variation on the rumored romance of Fyodor Dostoyevsky isn’t terribly new since Audrey Hepburn and William Holden already had a run at it in Paris When It Sizzles, although even then a marginally respectable storyline failed to offer much more than a promising premise. To paraphrase Lloyd Bentsen, I’ve read Dostoyevsky, and you, Rob Reiner, are no Dostoyevsky.

Like Paris When It Sizzles, the crux of the romance is played out on the screen as the dictated novel is recreated by the actors. It becomes impossible to believe that Alex is the vaulted novelist he and his editor see himself as considering that this work couldn’t be less engaging. It tediously looks at a Gatsby-era love triangle between a tutor (Alex’s proxy), a French aristocrat (Marceau), and the housekeeper (Emma’s proxy). Emma starts off as many stereotypes of ethnicities, including a daffy Swede, a bitter German, and a seductive Latin before settling on the much more acceptable down-home American.

Coming out of Alex & Emma, one gets the impression of sitting through two films, although neither is any good. The main romance is sloppily put together with dramatics that can be seen chapters earlier. The two actors attempt some chemistry but fail to even make their story seem like one with a pulse. At times, the prospect of some unhappy Cubans killing off this story before it can waste anymore time is tempting, and, although, I like Luke Wilson greatly, his ability to find the worst dreck for a crossover career can be painful to watch. A bit of euthanasia might not be uncalled for.

Hudson, meanwhile, takes the cake as the most annoying actress of modern cinema. Her flighty turn in Almost Famous seemed ethereal under the direction of Cameron Crowe, but here, as in everything she’s done since, her goofiness is just an annoyance. One might think that her quintuplicate roles might give her the chance to shine in some form, but that never occurs.

The cinematography of Gavin Finney has a sepia, nostalgic look that compromises the lackluster appeal of the rest of the film. Although the story that is being told falls miserably short of this comparison, the imagery Finney succeeds in creating for these segments is not unlike the world of Jay Gatz I imagined as I read The Great Gatsby, This says much for the cinematographer but little for the director and screenwriter when I consider how far their work on the production is from even being comparable to the chilly, mediocre Robert Redford/Mia Farrow Gatsby.

Director:
Ang Lee

Starring:
Eric Banna
Jennifer Connelly
Sam Elliott
Josh Lucas
Nick Nolte

Release: 20 Jun. 03
IMDb

If there’s anything impressive about Ang Lee’s decision to make The Hulk, it’s the absolute gamble that it involved. Maybe he and regular collaborator James Schamus were a bit big-headed after their success with Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, thinking they could perhaps pull off more of a Hollywood action film after capturing the tone of mystical Asian cinema without all the B-movie appeal of a Wu Tang collection entry. I cannot help but have some excitement with his willingness to touch on a project he’s probably above (Bryan Singer has done wonders on the X-Men films although his previous films, The Usual Suspects and Apt Pupil, were much more auspicious projects), but my disappointment is also greater when I consider that his talents have been so clearly wasted on this mess.

I know that I’ve commented on it before, but I feel like my lackluster knowledge of comic book history may have been especially damning in my reading of what was represented on the screen.  The moody cues of The Hulk lacks any of the adventure I would have expected, or, for that matter, the thinly veiled pathos that seems inherent with the story. What I wanted -- and I know this is horrible grounds for criticism -- was a film about the inner debate of being an unintentional superhero, something that Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man and Singer’s X-Men so thoroughly succeeded on. What I got was more a Hallmark Hall of Fame film with bad CGI -- a heart-wrenching story of two people who love each other as they grow above the damage their fathers inflicted on them. If I knew this was going to be more sentimentality and less heroics, less commentary (I’ve already waxed on the greatness of the X-Men films and their politicking), I might have just saved my time and watched Shrek again, which at least has a big green guy with some personality.

Lee tried desperately to put some life into his Hulk, but all he ultimately gives is style for the sake of style, a lacking approach to telling a story without any real grounding. If The Hulk has been a stronger story (more in the screenwriting department than in the comic’s premise), this could have been one of the best action films of the year, free to exit itself from the paneling pretensions that Lee loses himself in. If telling the movie in the same form as a comic book were narratively fortuitous, more movies would emulate Chilly Willy than Bob Kane, finding the depth of literary comic book characters to be too diverting for the visual glory of the frame.

The Oedipus-Elektra-Hercules-Prometheus drama that is told within The Hulk couldn’t be more shallow and ultimately less appealing; it misses Tim Burton’s success molding Kane’s Batman into the type of dark, gothic creation that was needed to supplement his sappy altruism (a product Richard Donner failed to capture in Superman). With all the pangs of Greek drama, The Hulk should offer more, but really is barely able to pull of anything other than its hatred of father figures, showing one with a militant mentality and the other one evidently inflicted with rabies. It is testament to the abilities of Sam Elliott and Nick Nolte, respectively, that they come out of this wreck with barely a scratch, turning their one-dimensional characters into something memorable (especially Nolte, who seems to be basing his character of his famous mug shot last year).

The visual effects make things worse, though, as The Incredible Hulk looks more like Gumbi jumping through the desert than Lou Ferrigno ungracefully tossing villains through doors. Without any real interest in, say, physics or biology, the new CGI Hulk looks wretched, a plodding hunk of clay molded into toned muscles and wearing extremely elastic pants. The dogs that become the film’s villainous henchmen look just as bad, but at least one recognizes that these unimpressive creatures weren’t supposed to have much of a personality anyway even though they are ultimately more interesting than their bulbous prey.

Director:
Jeffrey Blitz

Starring:
Harry Altman
Angela Arenivar
Ted Brigham
April DeGideo
Neil Kadakia
Nupur Lala
Emily Stagg
Ashley White

Release: 30 Apr. 03
IMDb

Whenever asked for my choice of the best show on television, I always seem to answer with 60 Minutes. Don Hewitt’s little-news-show-that-could has been the smartest rendering of television magazine-style news without all the gushy, personal interest stories that make Dateline NBC and 20/20 barely watchable. Watching a night of 60 Minutes is like proudly finishing off the week’s issue of The New Yorker, pounding through the international news (the Tony Blair-David Kelly scandal), the U.S. politics (questions about the legality of modern redistricting), an in-depth biography (James Joyce’s family life), and the humor (David Sedaris or Andy Rooney).

The documentary Spellbound, which received an Oscar nomination against Bowling for Columbine and Winged Migration, seems to want desperately to be along the ranks of 60 Minutes, or maybe some of its lesser brethren. But, unfortunately, despite some strong moments, it never quite makes it. Spellbound has the earmarks of an interesting story, but loses it all when the rendering of the story becomes the task at hand.

The film looks at the preparations of eight kids competing in the 1999 National Spelling Bee, going through extensive regimens and the boost/neglect of confidence that can come when parents become more intent on gamesman glory than their children (something similar can be seen at nearly any little league baseball park or hockey rink), but never really captures the key differences that made these eight worth following. It is hard to not notice the socio-economic factors at work here and, more than anything, the way immigrants have a large part in the entrance of their children at this competition, but beyond that director Jeffrey Blitz seems afraid to deal with anything of great weight, which explains why the film never resonates as anything more than mere sports drama in a competition one would unlikely call a sport.

The second half of the film -- nearly 45 minutes -- is devoted to the competition itself and the anxiety that can come from watching a kid’s seemingly perfect preparations collapse because of the misplacing of one letter. But the color commentary and the post-loss sincerities can’t fully act as a trustee for real depth. What is lost is a sense of personality for the stories these kids lead. They seem to be more of an entertainment for Blitz, their problems played for humor without the slightest interest in what makes them real, breathing, emotional people. When the kid I liked the most, barely given her developed part of the duration of the film, is disqualified from the competition, she begins to weep, her once sharp tongue and signature sass hidden in the shame she feels for falling short of everyone’s expectations. But none of this side of the girl is present in the preceding scenes -- Blitz manipulates her addition to the story -- as he has probably done to all eight kids -- so that he can get not only her humor of the first half, but also the pathos of her failure in the second. It’s a rather sickening way to make a film that supposedly documents the achievements of these kids instead of using them as mere subjects for his tawdry little chamber drama.

It is my belief, however unlikely it may be, that Blitz wants to play Spellbound as a family film to the point that he castrates it of all its possible depth. The film isn’t necessarily worthless, but it falls short of the greatness it once had. This could have been a contender, it could have been somebody. Instead it’s just a two-bit, semi-exploitive melodrama played for cheap laughs. Regardless of the Oscar nomination, don’t expect Don Hewitt to give him a call anytime soon.

Director:
Patrice Leconte

Starring:
Jean Rochefort
Johnny Hallyday
Jean-François Stévenin
Charlie Nelson
Pascal Parmentier

Release: 9 May 03
IMDb

Milan (Hallyday) walks off of the train at the end of the day, looking for a place to stay. The hotel is closed up and the only place with lights -- and noticeably lit, as is the French custom -- is the sign for the pharmacist. He swaggers around the place, contemplating his choices as the audience tries to discern why someone like him has come to a rustic little French berg like this.

The Man on the Train is pure American Western, but told with a French accent. The man in black -- could be good, could be bad -- walks into town looking for something -- maybe trouble, maybe sanctuary -- as he tensely prepares for some folly -- perhaps, well, you get the picture. Malin is the John Wayne figure of the film and his costar, Manesquier (Rochefort), is the man who shot Liberty Valance, a quit gentlefolk imagining the great Western heroics that he might have within him.

Manesquier is a poetry tutor for the local kids (based on the look of the town, one might infer that there’s about 3 kids around the place), turning his paucity for the written word into one of the many places of relative security he has found. So long has he been around here, knowing all those who call it their home, that his misplacement of the house key means he’ll just leave the place unlocked instead of re-coring the door.

Milan seizes on the opportunity that is an unlocked home, especially one this big. It becomes clear as the film progresses that Milan is of the darker, more insidious variety of Western heroes. His work is meant for the evils of man, not necessarily the betterment of society. In fact, he might not even be that much of a John Wayne, but more of a William Holden in The Wild Bunch.

He has come to this town to rob the bank (heaven knows what riches it may hold for its sparse population), arriving early to case out the place before his cohorts follow. This kind of information should be something to scare off the reserved Manesquier, who has allowed Milan to live in his home. But the type of adventurer Milan represents to Manesquier is too compelling and soon he is wishing for an ability to emulate his bad boy tenant instead of wasting away in a life of relative security.

The richness of Patrice Leconte’s film is that it dangles the what-ifs involved in such a divergent friendship without allowing the comparisons to become overbearing. Before long, the hints of co-equal jealousy on each man’s part are clear but the meaning of their wished switching is not. Leconte is capturing the two sides of man: reservation and inhibition. Neither man has a complete lifestyle because they have gone so far in one side of this spectrum, missing out either on the actions of life or on the confidence of settlement. This hint at the other life is, perhaps, their personal downfall, but also the only way they could move on as human beings.

The way Leconte regards this is with gentle amusement. Milan can give a poetry lesson and where slippers but he will never feel completely secure, and Manesquier can stand before a mirror emulating Wyatt Earp clad with leather jacket and gun but he can never really pull off the image of a desperado. Their lifetimes in this one form have molded them into the type of person that will never look or sound right as anything other than themselves.

To get this, Leconte needed actors who could convince the audience of these particular histories, and he definitely has them in the form of Hallyday and Rochefort. The former is best known for his Elvis français, a Rock-a-Billy from the provinces; the latter as kindly gentlemen who merit a weekly visit to the Cote d’Azur. Each one has found great success in their roles -- Hallyday’s popularity is probably only short of Charles Aznavour and Edith Piaf and Rochefort was the choice of Terry Gilliam to play Don Quixote -- but are unlikely to ever get out of them. For that reason, it is oddly compelling to see them give it a try in The Man on the Train, even if their slack-jaw attempts are destined to failure.