A quick date check on my movie listings will reveal that I cheated a bit on my film festival attendance. The chaos of personal life prompted me to skip Notes on a Scandal in favor of a DVD viewing at home a few days later (after watching The Lives of Others at the end of the festival). Unfortunately, today is merely a brief lull between storms so we shall see if I can squeeze out a few comments on the two movies before things get hectic for another week.

Notes on a Scandal

What a deliciously wicked little story of obsession, deception and malice this is. Notes on a Scandal is smartly written, outstandingly performed and full of dark glee. The result is riveting and decadent.

Barbara (Dame Judi Dench) is a veteran schoolteacher with no illusions about the banality of her life. She spends her days enduring the people around her, students and fellow faculty alike, and records her impressions of it all during the evening. Her observations (provided via voice-over) are caustic, cynical and embittered ruminations enlivened by a droll and sardonic wit. This is her defense against all of the disappointment and disillusionment life seems to have thrown her way.

As the story begins, a new art teacher, Sheba (Cate Blanchette), has joined the faculty. Although Barbara’s comments are as acerbic as ever regarding the new arrival, her tone and her surreptitious side-long glances show that she is more than a little intrigued. Before long they have struck up a friendship. But when Barbara discovers that Sheba is having an affair with a 15-year old student, things take an ugly turn.

Barbara is obsessed with Sheba, and uses their shared secret to cruelly manipulate her “friend.” Sheba is obsessed with her student, and risks everything that is important in her life on their doomed fling. The result is an examination of perverted, destructive love that is every bit as startling in its depiction as Nabokov’s Lolita and as powerful in its themes as C.S. Lewis’s Till We Have Faces (although it is possible I do all three an injustice by the comparison).

In any case, Dench’s performance alone is worth the price of admission. Like all such characters (Travis Bickle of Taxi Driver, for instance), Barbara is easy to identify with, even while we are repulsed by her. Her familiarity makes us both sympathetic and uncomfortable. Like Bickle, she is an outsider who longs for human connection, but has no conception of a healthy or normal way to make contact. When she is most like herself she pushes people away. Dench conveys pure evil with a tinge of heartbreaking sadness that is almost impossible to detect.

The climax of all this is loud and spectacular. Devastating consequences fly in all directions, but for some characters there is a comforting hint of redemption, though it will be difficult to obtain. The ending, however, caught me completely off-guard. It struck the perfect note, and my darker side couldn’t quite supress an ironic cackle as the screen went black.

The Lives of Others

The German winner of this year’s Best Foreign Film award has been, and continues to be, the talk of the town. Everyone seems to have something to say about it, and it continues to generate news and thoughtful considerations all over the internet. Even without all the buzz, I would have been looking for a chance to see it. I absolutely loved Water and Pan’s Labyrinth, and I wanted a look at the movie that shut them out.

In 1980s East Berlin, Hauptmann Wiesler (Ulrich Mühe), a Stasi (secret police) agent, is tasked with the surveillance of popular playwright Georg Dreyman (Sebastian Koch) and his girlfriend, actress Christa-Maria Sieland (Martina Gedeck). As Wiesler becomes increasingly familiar with their most intimate values, struggles and ideals, he slowly begins to sympathize with them. And as Dreyman’s activites become subversive, Wiesler is drawn to put his own career, and possibly even his life, at risk to protect his target.

Mühe does excellent work, navigating his character’s unlikely transformation in a way that almost sells it (more on that in a moment). His performance puts a human face on the vast, inhuman machine required to keep scrupulous tabs on an entire population. The very idea is staggering, both in principle and in scope. What sort of man would such work for such a sytem? Mühe provides us with a glimpse.

Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of The Lives of Others is its close observation of human nature under intense moral pressure. A corrupt bureaucrat sets out to ruin a romantic rival under the pretext of monitoring party loyalty. A man who loves his country and believes in its form of government must consider how best to reconcile his patriotism with the political misfortune of a friend and mentor. A woman is forced to choose between betraying a neighbor and sacrificing her daughter’s future. A thousand such stories, a hundred thousand even, are hinted at, each with their own tragic crises of conscience (although we catch only glimpses of a handful here).

This is a taut, well-told story which gives us a great deal to reflect on in its touching quiet moments. The fatal flaw for me was that I was not sold on the premise, and because I was not sold I was not absorbed. I was so distracted by whether I could believe that a hardened fanatic like Wiesler was capable of such an abrupt and total transformation, that I couldn’t fully appreciate the effects of that transformation. The fix could be something as simple as further development of the character’s background, but within the context of the movie I could not account for Wiesler’s change of heart.

The whole thing puts me in mind of Life is Beautiful, a movie I abhor more deeply every time I see it because in its rush to extol the beauty of life and love sacrifice, it glosses glibly over harsh realities which really ought to be inescapable. Good-hearted as its message may be, it is so fantastically dishonest in the communicating of it that it cheapens the very real horror of its subject (the Holocaust). The Lives of Others does not deal so carelessly with East Germany before the wall came down, but it all seems a little too easy. The danger and evil lack a sense of immediate urgency (despite all the suspense and excitement).

Perhaps I am simply being difficult, but I think I would have given the award to Water, after all.

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I missed Marie Antoinette during its original theatrical run, and again during the brief dollar theater re-run, but I finally ran it to ground on DVD. This movie reminds me of certain pastries I have sampled: Very fancy and scrumptious-looking on the outside, but rather dry and tasteless when you bite in. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that Sofia Coppola has a certain flair for making movies, and one could do much worse than this often captivating approach to a biopic.

There is an astounding level of detail in evidence here. I can’t speak to its historical accuracy with any degree of certainty, but it looks convincing enough. The sets, the costumes and the food are all sumptuously lavish. The soundtrack, as you probably know if you’ve seen a trailer, includes a unique blend of anachronistic pop music which works surprisingly well in the context of 18th-century France.

The movie follows the life of its title character (played by Kirsten Dunst) from when she is told that she will be shipped off to France to marry the future king to when she is driven away from Versailles in a carriage as a prisoner of the French revolution. During this time, about two decades go by, but I had to look that up because it certainly doesn’t show on Marie’s face. Perhaps that’s okay, as Dunst is at the median age between the character’s two extremes.

Marie Antoinette seems in many ways to be more of an experiment in style than anything else. Coppola succeeds rather well in making such a distant historical figure more accessible to modern sensibilities. Occasionally this is done in a consciously ahistorical fashion, as with the pop music or the brief appearance of a pair of blue sneakers amidst the piles and piles of Marie’s shoes. Most of the time, however, it is much more subtle, thanks in part to the skill of the actors. Dunst is well-cast in the lead role, but equally brilliant are Jason Schwartzman (Rushmore) as Louis XVI, Steve Coogan (Tristram Shandy) as the Austrian ambassador sent to keep Marie out of trouble, and a host of others.

The perspective of the film is on Marie Antoinette as a tragic figure. She is powerless to control her own fate from the moment we first see her, pampering her pet dog (which accompanies her everywhere) and wandering aimlessly through lavishly-decorated rooms. Really, she has an awful lot in common with that dog. From the moment she arrives in France, people on all sides make it clear that her sole purpose and responsibility is (of course) to produce an heir. Nevermind that her new husband still thinks that girls are just annoying pests that don’t know how to do anything useful. That will make her task more difficult, but the lack of a pregnancy remains her problem. Later we realize that her husband, the Dauphin, may feel just as alone as she does.

Nobody talks national politics in Marie Antoinette. This is not in any way a history of events leading up to the French Revolution. The idea is that Marie, like the audience, has no point of contact at all with her people. She is living on another planet, and she doesn’t even know it. The closest we come to a discussion of national unrest is when Marie hears the story of her infamous “cake” gaffe. “I would never say that!” she protests, and we believe her.

There is no discernable narrative to Marie Antoinette, and if Coppola’s biopic is weak in fulfilling its purpose, it is because she takes so long to say so little. Even without a glancing familiarity with the actual queen, one can be fairly certain that there is little of genuine historical value here (although even the most inaccurate fiction can inspire viewers to conduct their own research). Nevertheless, this is a quality production and even when it drags there’s always something to look at.

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starring Tobey Maguire, Kirsten Dunst, James Franco and Topher Grace
written by Sam and Ivan Raimi and directed by Sam Raimi
rated PG-13 for sequences of intense action violence.
85%

I watched Peter Parker’s high school graduation in the first Spider-man movie with my class on the last night of my senior trip, just a few days before I graduated from high school. A few years later, in Spider-man 2 after completing my sophomore year at college, I watched him struggle with his personal life: juggling tough college courses, a lousy job and some rather tortured friendships. This was a character who was aging at exactly the same rate and going through many of the same major life events that I was. More than any other superhero on page or screen (with the possible, but dubious, exception of Batman) Peter was human, and I could relate with him.

I say all this because perhaps the most withering criticism I can level at Spider-man 3 is that I no longer feel any connection to its title character. I graduated from college almost exactly one year ago, and I walked into the theater for a reunion with an old friend . . . only to find that I don’t know who this guy is anymore. The franchise may not have jumped the shark with its 3rd chapter, but its main character is not what he once was. Naturally, when I say “most” withering criticism, I do not mean “only.” At 140 minutes, Spider-man 3 may be too long, but it feels much too short.

Peter Parker’s life couldn’t be better. He is acing every class, a permanent staff position at the Daily Bugle seems just within reach (despite the schemes of Eddie Brock (Topher Grace), a cocky newcomer), his girlfriend is starring in a Broadway production and he is getting ready to propose. Most importantly, New York City has fallen in love with his alter-ego, Spider-man. He is a hero and a cultural icon. Trouble can’t be far away.

Harry Osborne, once his best friend, has assumed his father’s place as the new Green Goblin, bent on revenge against Peter. A small-time crook named Flint Marko (Thomas Haden Church), who may have previously unsuspected connections with Peter’s past, finds that he has the power to do whatever he wants to achieve his ends. And, perhaps worst of all, a strange glob of black alien goo has attached itself to Spidey’s suit with alarming results.

There is easily enough material here for an entire trilogy, but (no doubt feeling the pressure of losing the franchise’s top stars) Raimi has gone all out to cram as much story material as possible into a single film. Don’t get me wrong; there is lots of fantastic material here. Probably enough, in fact, to make a top-notch Spider-man movie of much more moderate length. But there are quite a few very bad ideas as well, to say nothing of underdeveloped characters. Gwen Stacy, played by Bryce Dallas Howard (who seems to be showing up wherever the action is hottest these days), probably gets the shortest shrift with a role that is used solely to manipulate a few key decisions by other characters.

The new villains, while they are fun and brilliantly conceived, are badly executed on a couple of levels. Sandman’s connection to Peter screams “conveniently contrived” and Venom, aside from being given very few chances to shine, is woefully under-explained. What is this thing? Where does it come from and why? Why are sonic vibrations its personal Kryptonite? A few minutes of explanation would not have been amiss in answering such questions.

Spider-man 3 also contains the most painfully awful sequence of the trilogy (or any other recent superhero movie that I have seen, for that matter). I had the overwhelming urge to avert my eyes and pretend that this scene was not a part of the movie I was watching. It was ridiculously out of place, out of character and out of touch with any semblance of sane filmmaking, like everyone involved in the production suffered a sudden collective lapse in judgment. I waited in suspense, knowing that a few more minutes like this would sink the whole movie. By the time the scene was over, it was nearly too late.

But enough about what I hated. There are two things about Spider-man 3 that I really, really liked. First, of course, are its action and effects sequences. There is plenty of great spectacle to take in: high-flying acrobatics, devastating battles, startling transformations and so on. It would not be difficult to “totally geek out” over some of this stuff, especially if that is all you ask of your comic book movies.

Second, and more significant to me, is the thematic unity of the movie. Spider-man 3 is a story of revenge and forgiveness, and throughout almost two and a half hours of action, exposition and malfunctioning relationships, it never entirely forgets that. Peter, Harry, Eddie and Flint each have interlocking (and somewhat parallel) personal revenge arcs, and we watch each of these play out: the pain and destruction they cause, how each character handles himself and the consequences for those who find redemption and those who don’t.

This is fertile material, and I enjoyed its depth and breadth. The thematic thread which tied all of the subplots together did a great deal to make up for the sheer number of interwoven storylines. Harry, to my surprise, had the best material to work with, and his character seemed to be the most fully realized. Perhaps, though, I’m just a sucker for the magnificent Hamlet elements of his character development.

Ultimately, there is just too much to like for me to declare this movie a failure, and too much to hate to declare it a success. It is certainly far weaker than Spider-man 2, and I believe it is weaker than the first movie as well (although many might disagree). It does not stand well on its own, but there is no doubt that it is still crackerjack blockbuster fare with more depth than the average summer movie.

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I am, all in all, a little uncertain about quite what to make of Venus, the Kilgore Film Festival’s 4th selection. On the one hand, the performances are magnificent, funny and frequently touching. On the other hand, the behavior of the characters can be so off-putting and creepy as to make the viewer squirm, and it is difficult to say precisely what Venus is trying to tell us.

Maurice (Peter O’Toole) is an aging actor who is rapidly approaching the end of his life. He bickers with his geriatric friends, Ian and Donald (Leslie Phillips and Richard Griffiths) and occasionally visits his ex-wife, Valerie (Vanessa Redgrave). The rest of his time is spent attending the theater and occasionally getting acting work (mostly as a dead or dying man).

Enter Jessie (Jodie Whittaker), the daughter of Ian’s niece. Ian believes she has come to London to care for him in his old age. Jessie, however, has different ideas. She sleeps late, guzzles every drop of alcohol in the house and spends her days snacking on the couch in front of the telly. She has a vague idea of procuring some modeling work, but no apparent game plan. Her great-uncle is distraught. Maurice is amused.

As a favor to his friend and, more importantly, because he finds her rather attractive, Maurice starts taking Jessie around town and looks for modeling work for her. So begins a relationship that seems largely unhealthy (it would be difficult to review this movie without recourse to the word “lecherous”), but perhaps Maurice and Jessie can learn a few things from each other before the credits start to roll.

Venus is probably Peter O’Toole’s best role in about 20 years (since 1987’s The Last Emperor, to be exact). His performancemore than makes the movie, it is the movie. With more than five decades of acting for the screen behind him, it is likely that only Peter O’Toole could inhabit the role with such perfect style and complete ease. Maurice is O’Toole, and at the same time he is not.

Meanwhile, O’Toole’s co-stars have nothing to be ashamed of. Phillips and Griffiths are hilarious and poignant, and Redgrave lights up the screen. Her character is criminally underused. Then, of course, there is Whittaker in her first major film role. She delivers solid, memorable work despite working opposite a legendary cadre of experienced thespians (and being the youngest cast member with a large speaking part by a factor of several decades). There is a lot to like here.

I am by no means old, and I will not even be approaching old age for some decades yet. In fact, I am even younger than Jodie Whittaker (if only slightly). However, I can certainly appreciate the sensitive, nuanced treatment that old age receives here. The extreme generation-gap did not in any way hinder my empathy with these deeply-human characters: their joys and regrets, the pain, physical limitations and humiliations that come with age, the confusion and amusement at younger generations. In its best moments, Venus is about aging and what we can learn from those who have, and it is handled with grace and understanding.

Overall, though, the messages are mixed and a bit haphazard. This is a story about two adults who are perfectly happy to take advantage of each other, and fully willing to indulge each other in their respective vices. Maurice gets a kick out of the illusion of physical intimacy with Jessie. Jessie gets Maurice to indulge her with things she can’t afford.

Maurice is something of a hedonist, and he has made some choices that he regrets. When he thinks about it he seems to feel rather empty, but we gather that he tries not to think about it. “Do you really like that?” Jessie asks incredulously after Maurice has breathed deeply of her neck. “‘That,'” the impotent Maurice wryly replies, “is all there is.” Jessie is well on her way to living an equally self-centered life. However, something happens to both of them, although it is a bit difficult to tell what.

Both characters seem to have grown considerably from having known each other, simply because that is what is supposed to happen in a movie about an unlikely friendship. And if the friendship itself seemed more likely to be a negative force than a positive one during most of its existence . . . Well, perhaps there is more at work here than we can readily discern, or perhaps the emperor has no clothes. Either way, Venus is a quiet, moving film with jarringly vulgar sensibilities. It has its moments, but it’s not quite my style.

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