Filed under film revue …

Jan 02 2012
culture, film revue

Film Feministe: Mindless Teen Drama Edition. Well, Specifically Teen Wolf

Like all reviews in The Film Feministe, I strive to reveal a brief synopses of a film or television series as well as an analysis. Occasionally my reviews include plot spoilers; caveat emptor.

My nine year old daughter and I have a penchant for pleasantly creepy, supernatural television and film. We usually end up watching a lot of documentaries involving cryptozoology or ghost-hunting. In the realm of self-identified fiction it can be quite tricky to find programs that aren’t predominately heaping lumps of horror and violence, often with sexual overtones, on young women and children. So in answer to a question no one asked – No, I won’t be watching the latest gore-fest with cut-up babies delivered to doorsteps or women getting raped (by demons or humans), tortured, murdered, et cetera (P.S. please watch this).

On that note and without further ado… I give thee Film Feministe: Adolescent Lycanthropy!

“Teen Wolf” (TV, 2011)

Tyler Posey, Posing

Grrr.

You know what, I have no business writing this review for a few discrete reasons. One, I grew up in a house without television, so it’s not as if I had the typical vast body of pop culture innundation. Two, I hardly watch any television now, and I certainly do not afford myself the time consuming, synthesizing, and analyzing the vast, sticky-gooey wads of it available. If a program is lucky I’ll watch through a few seasons, but usually things jump the shark big time and I move on.

So as mentioned, the oldest child and I stumbled on last year’s “Teen Wolf”, just ending its first season this summer, and last night we finished the last episode via Netflix instant. Apparently this is from MTV? Can anyone remind me of any other MTV offerings, besides the vintage “Ren & Stimpy”? I’m not sure how much MTV television programming I’ve seen.

You could guess at the story and be about right. Nerdy/shy young man is unwittingly attacked by a werewolf and transformed: now he has a secret to keep while living life as a “normal teenage boy”. What does that mean? I wonder. Anyhoo there is of course the hero’s buddy, a love interest, conniving characters out to expose the Big Wolfy Secret, and a plot involving a family who’s been werewolf hunting (on the DL, natch) for centuries.

Let’s meet our cast of characters. We have first the Wolf Boy himself (there are other wolves but, they are mostly boring), played by Tyler Posey. I think the character’s name is Scott. Anyway, he’s pretty cute. And he’s a nice guy. He takes his shirt off a bit, and no one complains.

Pose-Down

I've spent a lot of time in the woods, but never come across one of these.

Then there’s Stiles. He’s Scott’s best friend. He has almost literally no life except helping Scott and running around trying to fix stuff.

Stiles, Agape

"I respond to situations by hanging my mouth open alot. I deliver 50% heart and 50% *BOOOIIIING* comedy."

Stiles drives a really cool vintage Jeep, but the show calls it a “piece of crap”, because another young man improbably drives a Porsche Cayman (pick one up used if you can’t afford new), and that would be:

"Hi, I'm really handsome, but don't worry, the script will keep reminding you of this so you won't forget. I am your basic soap opera good-guy-or-am-I-a-really-a-villian? character."

Jackson. He’s the guy that we’re supposed to wonder, is he a Good Guy or a Bad Guy? I don’t really wonder, because I know each episode the show will just change it around for convenience. One thing I like about Jackson is he has freckles. You don’t see guys-cast-as-hunks with freckles often. h/t Paul Bettany.

I almost forgot to mention. The love interest. But of course, ladies do come far down the list here. They’re still mostly girlfriends and moms. Twelve-ish hours of the show and it barely passes The Bechdel Test, I mean it really really barely squeaks by on that. So anyway here’s the main ladyness:

Damsel To Be Rescued

"I spend most time doing a really good job on my hair and makeup and being alternatively misled by everyone, menaced, and then rescued. Toward the end of the season I get marginally competent, but don't worry, my subplot is only predicated on the hero's."

There are several other characters of course, good guys, bad guys, people who are confused, a few who get eaten.

So, everyone is really really handsome. Moms, dads, kids. Everyone is really really good-looking. Maybe it’s because I watch a lot of British television, foreign indie films, and your occasional HBO – I’m used to seeing people onscreen who look like the people you see day-to-day. Anyway, I’m sure this Good Lookingness business is typical in television, still, it just kind of makes me laugh.

I forgot to mention, there’s one subplot character who looks to be more important in season two, played by the talented and, surprise, really really handsome:

Seth Gilliam

"Hey, I'm pretty sure this picture of me is from 'The Wire', because in 'Teen Wolf' I no longer have the 'stache... I'm rockin' an extended soul patch/chinstrap combo. Anyway I'll be playing your rather unconvincing vet/perhaps-witch-doctor type."

So yeah, most everyone, everyone, in the show is white as the driven snow… a few exceptions in abovementioned Seth Gilliam and minor character Danny as played by Keahu Kahuanui, a Hawaiian actor who interestingly (but not really that interestingly) stands in as the show’s only gay character. You know, kind of a nicely, inobtrusively gay character, used occasionally as foil for the comedic antics of our main hero set, Stiles and Scott.

There are wolfy and a few human murders, but the show is light on the gore by today’s standards, and there’s about four hundred percent less virginal-maiden-killing than I’d expect with a werewolf plotline.

A notable device I liked, besides the light drama and entertaining running-around-at-night hijinx, is the sweetness by which the high school romance is developed. Scott and Allison (that is the love interest’s name, BTW) have to do their courting while being bitched at and bossed around by parents and teachers, in a way I remember from my own adolescence. When it comes to romance, interestingly it is Allisonwho is the more adventuresome and sexually frank, while Scott is developed as a very sweet high school boy as interested in sex as she. This is a subtle but pretty welcome change from the teen dramas I remember seeing on my friends’ tellys: girls were allowed to be sexed but not allowed to be sexual (unless they were Sluts).Whatever desire they operated is to this day not shown onscreen, whereas the expression of male libido is dumbed down and practically lampooned – well, you know how it is.  In “Teen Wolf”, Allison is open and playful about sex, and Scott is reserved and romantic (but hardly platonic).

So in Casa del Hogaboom, will “Teen Wolf” get our second season fidelity? I don’t know. On the one hand instead of piling up like a bajillion secrets-upon-secrets and double-triple-betrayals (as USian television shows often do, to my dismay), the end of season one solved a few mysteries and united a few factions. On the other, as far as I can tell the show is just typical television, dialing down on the sex and gore in favor of a more tender storyline. If things stay that way we’ll probably enjoy popping the popcorn and settling in for another season.

***

Tagged , , , , , , , ,
May 29 2010
film revue, Uncategorized

Film Feministe: Villains I Feel In My Hip Pocket Edition

Mable, Villain-Cat

Ralph's getting his monocle ready and training this cat for lap-stroking. I think they'll do well.

Dennis Hopper passed on today, and when I heard this (on Twitter, where I hear just about everything) the first thing that came to mind was his performance in Blue Velvet as Frank Booth, the alcoholic, violent rapist imbued with an impressive case of Danger McScarypants. His performance was one of the most scene-chewing bad guys I’ve witnessed in a film but somehow? I forgive the histrionics because I wanted to go with that particular roller coaster.  In fact the “Candy Colored Clown” scene where he smears lipstick on Jeffrey Beaumont (as played by Kyle MacLachlan) and violently threatens him, kisses him, then tenderly serenades him* – this scene deeply moves me, scares me, and makes me feel nostalgically sad and a bit aroused, all at once.  Frankly there wasn’t much else Hopper did I much related to but Blue Velvet is one of my favorite films and in no small part due to Hopper’s potrayal.

I think in the final analysis I like bad guys. It’s not because I want to excuse their behavior – my favorite films that take their subject matter seriously are the ones that don’t attempt to explain or even rationalize sociopaths – or because I glory in violence and misery for the sake of violence and misery. I think it’s because most good bad guys are self-validating, and people who are self-validating fascinate me.  As well there are the bad guys (like a handful named below) who are great camp – or perhaps up against forces they can’t overcome and it’s a rather serio-comic affair. The below list is hardly exhaustive and is in no particular order; just a handful of characters I enjoyed muchly in the world of film.

On that note and without further ado…  I give thee Film Feministe: Villains I Feel In My Hip Pocket Edition!

Captain Frank Ramsey from Crimson Tide
You know what, probably lots of people who’ve seen this film don’t even think of Ramsey (as played by Gene Hackman) as a “bad guy”. No, they take the Monday morning quarterback position of the Jason Robards cameo at the end who mansplains it: “You gentlemen were both right… and you were both wrong.” No. Frakkin’. Way. Ramsey was wrong, and he was a sneaky, smug, arrogant asshole (however charismatic, compelling, and hardworking as a Navy man). Perhaps the reason I find him such a delicious Bad Guy is that whole charismatic/compelling bit he has going on and also: I can think of no greater personal Hell career move than having to puff a cigar and alternatively ass-kiss and one-up-dick this guy on the deck of a nuclear submarine. In any case, he and Denzel Washington’s stand-off (which comes in fits and roils of mental chess matches and later, shouting matches) was a great exercise in tension. I think there’s also a scene of Viggo Mortensen doing some ironing.

Mugatu from Zoolander
No seriously? How often can you cite a villain who’s every line is quotable awesomeness?  Will Ferrell is great at lampooning characters we wouldn’t think we’d want to watch and making them a sugar-gooey treat.  Favorite line? The oft-repeated, “That Hansel, he’s so hot right now!”  Favorite scene? Probably the moment he’s supposed to be monologuing and instead he has a sweaty and earnest breakdown at the seemingly completely-unrecognized buffoonery of our title hero. “Doesn’t anyone notice this? I feel like I’m taking crazy pills!” he cries out in helpless rage.

The Joker from The Dark Knight
By the time the film came out we (whether saddened or indifferent) had heard much hype regarding the penultimate performance of our departed actor – talent and beauty – Heath Ledger.  Easy to build up expectations and come away feeling a bit cotton-mouthed, but no. Ledger brought it enough to send delighted little shivers up my spine in each scene he commanded.  Jack Nicholson did well enough in ’89′s Burton-directed effort but Ledger’s joker didn’t steal or borrow a mote of the elder actor’s performance.  His Joker was scary but he was riveting; he was troubled and homicidal but he was a social critic of great acumen who never got boring. I’ve watched the film about three times and in the final analysis it’s a bit overblown and heavy-handed but most of the actors’ talents were not wasted (and I loved the Joker’s sartorial leanings). It’s hard to come by a truly creepy bad guy these days and I take what I can get.

May Day from A View to a Kill
What can one say about Grace Jones’ performance given that amongst a fair number of decent Bond Girls (and a whole gaggle of mediocre or offensively-procured ones) she stands out in a class of her own? I didn’t care for her exit from the film as I thought she’d likely have said, “Fuck this,” and continued on caring for Numero Uno rather than heroically sacrificing herself after her treacherous boyfriend’s scheme failed. I did like just about everything else about her: her style, her Don’t-Mess-With-Me, her line right before she beds Roger Moore’s Bond, and the fact she totally outshone not only the Good Bond Girl played by Tanya Roberts in an implausibly-fitting jumpsuit but the Actual Bad Guy as well (whats-his-name played by whozit? Oh yeah, it was Christopher Walken, another scene-chewer who usually has no problem getting noticed). I’m a Bond fanatic and I hope we’re seeing more of May Day’s ilk in future installments.

The Thing from The Thing
Last year my daughter entered the room while I was watching this film. It was the opening scene: merely a beautiful dog running silently through pristine white snow. Phoenix said to me, “This is a scary movie, isn’t it?” and she was right. It’s a scary fucking movie. Loosely a remake of 1951′s The Thing from Another World, this film is a more faithful adaptation of the novella Who Goes There? by John W. Campbell, Jr. which inspired the 1951 film as well as 1979′s Alien, another great white-knuckler.

The Thing itself is very … Thingy. It isn’t like creatures we’re used to on this planet. The special effects are notorious and either scoffed at or much admired; for myself, I loved knowing in the thrashing and tentacle-ing and screeching flappy stuff there wasn’t so much as pixel travelling across my screen. The whole paranoid-group-of-people-on-some-form-of-a-submarine bit works nicely for me in bringing the suspense, as well as Kurt Russell’s MacReady was easy on the eyes in his mountain-man beard and Keith David as Childs brings the perfect balance of intensity and a kind of harassed, Jesus, I can’t believe we have to deal with this shit attitude that I found entirely relatable. The Thing itself really freaked me out (oddly, the wire-in-the-blood scene being the most shocking) and stayed with me days after I saw the film. It was savage, relentless, destructive and absolutely not something one could reason with.

Adrian from Descent
This movie is so Not For The Squeamish that by even mentioning it I run the risk a reader will go rent it or Netflix it and watch it and then come back and tell me I’m a Terrible Person for enjoying the film. It is, however, an amazing piece of work and I’ll wager the low ratings evidenced at imdb.com are less due to the quality of the film and more due to the extreme discomfort many will feel with the subject material and plot events in this female-written-and-directed effort.  Ostensibly about a rape by a creepy frat boy and the resultant damage done to and revenge procured by our heroine Maya (played with a fragility, ferocity, and tenderness by the always-riveting Rosario Dawson), in the final analysis I think the whole thing was about Sadism. No, not the for-fun Sadism that people willingly engage in with rules and safe words as an agreed-upon sport. The film is about a sadist who thinks he can get away with his stuff but sometimes in one’s travels we run across a Foe who is Beyond Us. With regard to Adrian, he isn’t the only villian in the film but he’s the biggest one on the block. He’s powerful and charismatic and beautiful and terrifying and he can do things many of us wouldn’t ever want to do, even if we believed in our bones our target “deserved” it.

Captain Barbossa from the Pirates of the Carribbean series
Look, I’m going to say it. I like the Pirates franchise. First off, I got kids and these movies have been fun little blips during the raising of such kids. Go into a theatre and I get to eat popcorn and watch a bunch of hunks and a sexy lead female Pirate King all jumping around and blowing things up and there are monsters and tongue-in-cheek jokes and Johnny Depp’s very fun Captain Jack Sparrow – not to mention as a sewist I experience excessive drooling over the bigger-than-life piratey costumes (which seem to get better and better).

But Geoffrey Rush as one of the bad guys/anti-heroes? He plays it perfect pirate with an earnestness and a wink that somehow doesn’t get to cringey levels of camp. Plus, and I have to say it, I find the man sexy. Yes, even when he voiced a pelican in the Pixar classic Finding Nemo, which was a bit disturbing but I kept it to myself (until now. Don’t judge). Hell there is barely a non-sexy pirate in the whole business (and I most emphatically am including creepies played by Bill Nighy and Chow Yun-Fat). Back to Rush: he also gets a hat tip for his turn as Casanova Frankenstein, the pleasantly psychotic villain in the oft-ignored comic treat Mystery Men.

And I swear I was going to eschew a Pirates 4 because please, let’s let a good thing not go to ruin. But Ian McShane as Blackbeard? Color me hells yes.

Shiwan Khan from The Shadow
Maybe I’m just writing with my hormones today because John Lone is another drool-inducer. I liked The Shadow and sometimes I feel like hardly anyone else did. Lone, Alec Baldwin, Penelope Ann Miller and Peter Boyle played it with a hip pocket of Smartass (and again, the costumes; loved ‘em!) that serves a comic book/superhero flick well. Lone as Khan was certainly Evil and bloodthirsty and after World Domination but he was also simultaneously urbane and prone to material pettiness: “In three days, the entire world will hear my roar, and willingly fall subject to the lost empire of Shan Kahn. That is a lovely tie, by the way. May I ask where you acquired it?” Baldwin at the title character gave as good as he got; the two were well-matched.

Body Heat
OK, if you haven’t seen this 1981 neo-noir pleasantly-smutty fable starring William Hurt and Kathleen Turner you need to stop reading this moment as there is no way to discuss the film without revealing some major spoilers. No seriously: go watch it. ESPECIALLY if you like noir (or sex, or both). OK, just us chickens now? Good. Because of course if you’ve seen the film you know the villain I’m talking about is Matty as played by Turner. Matty is in so many ways the typical Femme Fatale in that you kind of know she’s the one with the murderous ideas and she’s not laying her cards on the table and Ned Racine (Hurt’s character) is weaselly and desperate and superiority-complex’d enough to think he can still play and survive. Knowing all this and having seen plenty of noir films I still fell for some of her ploys, at first thinking of her as a passionate and impulsive woman with a half-assed Bad Idea instead of the passionate and calculating woman with Quite The Plan. Perhaps the best thing about the film finale is that Matty doesn’t get thrust on the sword of slutty-female-who’s-going-to-die (like almost every other woman of her ilk gets done down in these kinds of films… actually ANY kind of film). She plays Racine exactly to get what she wants and she gets a lot of fabulous boning in the duration and not once is her conscience disturbed. The last we see her she’s on an island drinking a fancy drink and taking in the sun. Well-played, m’lady.

Mentioned:
Blue Velvet (1986)
Frank Booth quotes
* “Love Letter” on Youtube
Crimson Tide (1995)
Zoolander (2001)
Zoolander‘s finest moments at Youtube
The Dark Knight (2009)
Batman (1989)
A View to a Kill (1985)
A James Bond cinematic music primer at Wikipedia
The Thing (1982)
Alien (1979)
Descent (2007)
Pirates of the Carribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Mystery Men (1999)
The Shadow (1994)
Body Heat (1981)

Apr 09 2010
film revue

Film Feministe: Ninja Tedium Edition

Ninja!

Sometimes ninja films are hard to take seriously. Wait, "sometimes?"

Like all reviews in The Film Feministe, I strive to reveal a brief synopses of a film as well as an analysis. Occasionally my reviews include minor plot spoilers; caveat emptor.

A not-so-secret?  I like action films.  Or rather, I watch them, especially when I want to put my brain in Neutral and hand-sew or knit (or in the case this last couple days, to rest – I am fighting a head cold).  One can’t enjoy – let alone critique – an action film without a hefty dose of Suspending Disbelief and a desire to see stuff blown up or punched or perhaps an “ethnic” fruit market driven through by a police car (alternatively said vehicle will annihilate cardboard boxes in an alleyway).  Of further note, action films are often so incredibly and boringly sexist (and racist, ageist, and homophobic to boot) that if I get a heroine who doesn’t show 3/4ths of her cleavage as she stands and squeaks while the menfolk do the fighting (pick up the gun, lady!) I’m at least a bit happier than I otherwise might have been.  So I try to watch an action film that promises a good enough time and a lot of escapism and hopefully some watchable hijinks.  On that note and without further ado…  I give thee Film Feministe: Ninja Tedium Edition!

Ninja Assassin (2009)
Trivia question: do you know what situs inversus is?  It’s a pretty rare condition whereby the organs in one’s chest and abdomen are arranged in a mirror image of, you know, everyone else’s.  It effects less than one out of 10,000 people.

In the case of 2009′s action adventure Ninja Assassin, the relevant point is as follows: in cases of situs inversus the heart is located on the right side of the chest and thereby will resist the kind of stabbing technique you or I, or let’s say your average ninja, would employ to kill this person.  And not to be a Ruin McSpoilerpants but this particular biological anomoly comes up twice via two separate characters in the film (and no, they’re not related).  The fact the film uses this at all, let alone twice, well, it’s rather an indication of the caliber of writing inherant.

Oh, Ninja Assassin. I was so wanting to enjoy you. The first few minutes of the film I felt kind of hopeful we’d have an earnest, campy, over-the-top adventure with perhaps an adrenaline-pumping urban pop/house soundtrack (I felt this way about the partnering of Chow Yun-Fat and Mira Sorvino in 1998′s The Replacement Killers, which Ninja Assassin bore a passing resemblance to). Our first scene promises some badass silliness when a bunch of Yakuza thugs are massacred by ninjas as bloodthirsty and lethal as they are creative.  Example: one fellow’s noggin is sliced off right at the jawline so you see his intact tongue and lower teeth bobbling on his neck as the top of his head flies artfully into the next close-up shot (I froze-frame the carnage and it still held up on closer inspection).  So, well done on the gore front.

Yet instead of camp we are treated to an earnest and sluggish film chopped into backstory that then descends into shoot-’em-up, explosions, and prolific katana-fodder.  Not to mention the Ultimate Movie Bad Guy (the ninja-clan patriarch, a douche of epic proportions) has a voice and demeanor totally lifted from Splinter in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (perhaps this would lend more gravitas to the film for some viewers; not so in my case).  The story arc?  Not so much.  Let me break it down: secret ninja clan going back 1,000 years, turns out they’ve been behind every cool and mysterious assassination ever, and they’re soooooo badass (as the movie has several talking head governmental types assuring us multiple times), and they raise little kids to be all evil cold-blooded soldiers (who can also instantly heal 2″ deep gashes to their abdomens by using Thinky-Spiritual Magic), which most of the little kids (and later adults) seem to think is just dandy.  No, I’m not making this up.  So one little ninja by the name of Raizo gets a little resentful and for reasons explained in typical romantic-tragedy backstory starts to think the endless abuse and wretched life of ninja-slave isn’t that fun.  He decides to leave and become a ninja-assassin resistance fighter, spending his time avoiding assassination himself and hanging out in his apartment practicing his skills.  Meanwhile a cute cop – I mean Europol agent – named Mika Coretti (played by Naomi Harris) begins to uncover the whole ninja clan conspiracy, so Raizo feels compelled to protect her from the hordes of killers that set on her path.  And Raizo and Mika almost have this romantic thing going on but the movie doesn’t even give us that much.  You know a lot of big blockbuster films seem hesitant or unable to place an Asian male in the role of a romantic lead.  Just sayin’.

Back to Ninja Assassin, ever heard the phrase freshets of blood?  That’s what this film has.  A veritable plethora of freshets, if I may be so inclined to mix fifty cent words (and I may).  Yet unlike Quentin Tarantino’s over-the-top deliberate fetishization of arterial spray he used to deliberate and kitcshy exploitive effect in the Kill Bill series, Ninja Assassin seems to take the gushes of blood quite seriously.  The ubiquitous and bountiful gore-splosions aren’t intended to be exaggerations (though they notably are), often showcased by a pornographic slow-motion geyser assisted by crew members offscreen chucking buckets stuff on our stars.

Still, Rain. In case you don’t know, Rain is the stage name of the Korean enterainer (pop singer, dancer, model, actor, businessperson, and designer) starring as the adult Raizo in the film.  Anyway, I didn’t know much about Rain before seeing the film,  but he was nice to watch and seems a talented enough soul if you go look him up online (which I did).  Whatever lacked in the film, Rain made the whole thing worthwhile. The man is relatable, appealing, acts well enough (given the material), and is athletic, sexy and cuddly (the latter adjective probably just shows my age). I didn’t even mind scenes where he apparently took the trouble to set up these elaborate jungle gyms in his apartment and then kick at them and swing his kusarigama around with much fanfare. As in: seriously, it would take you a couple hours to set up the obstacle course and then you’d tap the whole thing out in three-point-four minutes of leaping about (after applying prodigious amounts of chest-grease).

I’ll be looking for Rain in the future – or perhaps re-watching Speed Racer, another Wachowski-produced adrenalin-fest he plays a part in.  I wish the young man a successful Hollywood career, albeit perhaps with a bit better writing and a little less soaking by a Karo syrup concoction.

Photo credit: super green ninja “with lasers“, by TheAlieness GiselaGiardino²³ at Flickr.

Mentioned:

Ninja Assassin (2009)

Situs Inversus

The Replacement Killers (1998)

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (1990)

Rain

Naomi Harris

Tagged
Mar 12 2010
film revue

Film Feministe: Dick Flicks Edition (Part One)

fisticuffs & pipe-smoking

Holmes and Watson in a spat?

Like all reviews in The Film Feministe, I strive to reveal a brief synopses of a film as well as an analysis. Occasionally my reviews include minor plot spoilers; caveat emptor.

I love Westerns. I love action films. One of the reasons I seek these out and watch them is because more than just about any other type of film I enjoy a well-done “buddy picture”. These seem exceedingly rare; look at your average Hollywood film marketed as a “buddy picture” and you have a couple of (usually white) men punching and shooting because they “have” to or they should; a handful of women serve as either serious love-interest or titillating arm-candy and ogling fodder. Few “buddy pictures” really develop on the nature, integrity, and character of the men therein, although that is supposedly what the film is about. In subsequent editions of this column I’d like to talk a bit about when buddy pictures get it right; here we have an example of one that got it almost completely wrong – despite having some wonderful material to start with.

Without further ado… I give you Film Feministe’s Dick Flick Edition (Part One)!

Sherlock Holmes (2009)

One of my early cinematic memories of a life lived loving movies was my mother telling me of a Sherlock Holmes film rendition in which “Watson and Holmes were homosexuals” (The way my mom says “homosexual” sets my teeth on edge).  My mother identified the gay Holmes film as 1988′s spoof Without a Clue starring Michael Caine and Sir Ben Kingsley.  A cursory review of this older film does not reveal there is any romantic plot or subplot between the two men; knowing my mother, she probably got her facts wrong.

I loved the Sherlock Holmes fiction stories and have read them forward and backwards yearly since the age of ten.  A few months ago when I saw the trailer for the newest Guy Ritchie installation I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.  Upon first glance the film looked to have stripped away the character of Holmes and the appeal of his stories, supplanting these with explosions, fisticuffs, high-gloss, slickness, and – incredibly – sexual titillation (sex in the fiction series? Zero).  But, as a Holmes-lover, I couldn’t stay away. 

Even with my modest expectations I was surprised how much it got things wrong. In fact, the film got so much wrong it is much easier to pinpoint what it (almost) got right: namely, the bond between Watson and Holmes.  For me it has never mattered much whether there was a romantic or sexual relationship between the two men; this interpretation or a strictly platonic one could serve the stories equally well. An exemplary aspect of the Sherlock Holmes installations were less his so-called “clever” deductions (many of which were impossible for a reader to have predicted or participated in, given they often revolved around implausible and last-minute-delivered minutiae from Holmes’ physical or mental library) than rather the relationship between the two crime-solvers. Holmes and Watson loved one another.  Deeply, loyally, and certainly to the exclusion of actual details in case-solving when such a choice had to be made.  I have always been drawn to stories of deep friendship and fidelity despite adversity – whether between men or women, and including or excluding a sexual element.  Holmes and Watson continue to deeply satisfy me as a reader, even when the stories and mysteries, make no mistake, are often rather silly and contrived.

To say Guy Ritchie’s latest imagining of Holmes was capable of hinting at a sexual relationship between the two men would be understatement. There are so very many visual and verbal clues as to this being the case it would be exhaustive to list them.  Much of the double entrendre is delivered in aggressive, playful fashion by Holmes (played by Robert Downey Jr.) to Watson (played by Jude Law).  The plot and subplot are essentially skeletal framework on which the larger story of the two mens’ relationship plays out: there is a mystery, of course, involving violent, conspiratory elements to fill the run time of the film (Holmes’ mysteries were often only a few pages). The film’s theme, however, is the impending breakup of the active partnership between the two men. Watson is getting married to Mary Morstan and will soon be moving out of the Baker Street residence. Holmes seeks to disrupt the engagement and the move-out date in every way possible.

Watson is a more active participant in the film than he was in the books. When he’s not assisting Holmes on the shockingly dangerous and physically violent errands of mystery-solving (more on this a bit) he spends much of the screentime asserting his agency to leave his obsessively needy companion.  Their bickering is partly old-roommate, partly sexual. In a early moment of the film the two are arguing about Watson’s imminent departure and Holmes lifts a long cane up to his friend’s mouth. “Get that thing out of my face,” Watson snaps at his housemate. “It’s not in my face, it’s in my hand,” Holmes mildly teases back. “Get the thing that’s in your hand out of my face,” Watson snarls in return.  The film is filled with many such in-jokes and allusions although a clueless person might not see them (or wish not to see them – hello, repressed straight males, oddly enough a target audience for the punch-em-up nature of the film).

Any sexual guesswork as to this version of the Holmes / Watson relationship is irrelevant in analyzing other choices the film makes, most of them familiar and namely, a most Drake McManslab series of plot events.  There are a myriad of explosions, poison gases, the destruction of massive amounts of property (really.  lots), electronic torture devices, freakishly brutal henchmen, and perhaps least appealing and most boring of all, endless, slow-then-rapid-motion fight scenes, some of them half-naked (Robert Downey Jr. has a rockin’ bod), many with deadly, terrible weapons.  The fight scenes might go almost unnoticed to audiences used to the simultaneous pornographic exploitation and trivialization of violence – and that’s the point. The film, instead of taking us somewhere imaginative, truly sinister, or realistically scary, merely employs chains, cattle-prods, axes, bullets, and numerous other forms of brutality in semi-comedic treatment that – if witnessed in real life – would have real-life and horrific repercussions (okay, yes, I am aware this is a Guy Ritchie film).

The violence is used often but only halfheartedly informs us of Holmes character.  He is a macho, macho man, sporting fighting-weight abs and vicious fighting skills.  He punishes himself masochistically in the boxing ring and is too emotionally remote and physically tough to notice damage inflicted on his person (curiously, this film version has Holmes drinking alcohol and just about any other stimulating and illegal substance; no mention of cocaine, which in the books was his only chemical dependency).  OK, yes, we get it.  Tough, tough guy.  Anyone read these books?  The literary Holmes was tough, but not Big McLargeHuge-tough – he was not given to sport but an able boxer and a man of tremendous physical strength (that he rarely deigned necessary to employ), by terms lazy and driven, prone to cocaine and tobacco but no other vice – and yes, not even “fast women”, of which the film also takes liberty to add:

Because further progressing a tired hyper-masculinied meme, there are no women in the film.  Indeed all females – including grisly murder victims and the two romantic (yet largely ornamental) leads – are referred to as “girls” (hint: you might realize you are watching a tired-ass sexist film if the female characters are never referred to by name, or as “women”, but rather – girls, or in the case of Mamet, broads.  Seriously.  Pay attention next time).  Mary Morstan (played by Kelly Reilly) shows up so infrequently we’re not sure at all why Watson is marrying her.  Her performance embodies the traits of high-class demeanor yet accessibly sexual – and even though she is supposed to be the love of Watson’s life, she is conveniently absent from screen time (in the books she was instrumental in “The Sign of Four”, one of the more epic Holmes stories).  Irene Adler is even further altered from the character in the book to ill effect, turned from a woman of the world to a cute li’l thing in the casting of Rachel McAdams.  Adler is no longer the intelligent, dignified, and wronged woman-cum-blackmailer of the book (who did not have any physical relationship with Holmes, I seek to ad) but instead one of those Sexy Ninja-Thief Ladies we’ve been enduring with regularity since the Charlie’s Angels revival of the eerily nineties.  She lacks the human traits and character foibles her male co-stars get in spades; her main traits seem to be that of being besotted with Holmes, a whiff of standard duplicitous femme fatale, and being very, very pretty.  Did I mention she’s pretty? Gosh-darn, she really is.

The cast is good, but underused. The talents of Mark Strong, like McAdams, are wasted in the role of Lord Blackwood, a creepy Satanist-or-is-he? of standard fare.  I was surprised and pleased by the role, casting, and character of Lestrade (Briton Eddie Marsan), a minor but familiar customer in the Holmes canon.  Costumes, location, and historical backdrop were used to the effect you’d expect from a big-budget film; namely, with much flare and little depth.  The costumes, naturally, made me drool, but then, I am a sewist.

In conclusion, I could have forgived the glossiness or even the punch, punch, punch, slap, smack – if only we’d had a compelling storyline between the two men, whose friendship is a legendary one.  The last bit of film reveals a character and subplot that will make it near impossible for me, or any other Holmes fanatic, to stay away from the sequel; I’m hoping if the institution is not handed off to a less uber-masculine director we at least slow down.  Less slow-motion super-punches, more of the deep draught of a wonderful friendship between two thrillingly well-rendered characters.

Never judge a book by its movie.
-J.W. Eagan

Mentioned:

Without a Clue (1988)

Sherlock Holmes (2009)

03/14/2010 ETA: Holmes and I, a blog post

Tagged , , , , ,
Dec 26 2009
6,255 Comments
feminism, film revue

Film Feministe: Marriage Most Noir Edition

Tomato, murdered at a peak of ripenessLike all reviews in The Film Feministe, I strive to reveal a brief synopses of a film as well as an analysis. Occasionally my reviews include minor plot spoilers; in the case of the noir films below, this is nearly a necessity to discuss the film in any detail whatsoever. Caveat emptor.

I like noir film. Except the parts I don’t. And here are a few of those:

1. Women who like sex are Bad Women, but don’t worry, they will die in under ninety minutes, probably as a result of their Evil Sluttiness.

2. People are all basically bad at heart, but if you’re a wisecracking smartass, you’ll come out alright in the end. Oh also, you’re probably a white male wisecracking smartass (and likely detective). Just so you know.

3. Lots of people get killed in a morbid and convoluted plot but somehow this cynical, world-weary hero figures it all out ahead of time – although you don’t know how he could.

4. Additional note: if there’s no “hero” in the noir piece that means we’re in for a double-dose of the old, “people are all basically bad at heart.” And honestly? I don’t find those films interesting.

But there is a lot to like about noir. The camera work! The lovely (often) black and white film aesthetic! The style – sartorial, conversational! – and often the musical score. And that wisecracking dude? Tell me you don’t want to be him: you know, smoking cigarettes stylishly or perhaps ruggedly, socially drinking with ease, living a slightly seedy life that is bereft of any personal responsibility besides sluggishly pursuing your case and getting mixed up with those Sexy, Evil Dames (before they’re killed off).

There’s a lot of wonderful noir out there, and this small selection isn’t particularly representative of a stylistic purity; we have here merely three films made in a nine-year span with elements of noir and a commentary on marital mores.

Without further ado… Film Feministe’s Marriage Most Noir Edition!

The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946)

This film tripped me out.  We have what seems a classic gritty tale: a hungry drifter named Frank (played by James Garfield) finds temporary employment and love and/or lust with his employer’s wife; the two of them eventually turn to talk of murder of the husband.  Lana Turner plays Cora, the beautiful, sexy, underserviced (by her husband) Sexy McSexerson waitress/wife (did I mention sexy?), who is trapped in a loveless and from all signs affectionless marriage to the bumbling happy husband Nick (Frank’s employer). Frank might be a basically nice guy, but his brain won’t be able to out-think his penis and he’s going to commit some mistakes – including murder – and end up in trouble: Right? Oh and of course: sexy waitress lady is going to die, natch.

Only, it turns out the young wife isn’t so much a femme fatale as she is in a really bad position (I’ll elaborate in a minute). And the performances of Garfield and Turner lend themselves more to love than lust, which put them me in an at least slightly sympathetic mood regarding their options. Most damning of all, the husband Nick isn’t so bumbly-but-nice after all: he’s a severe alcoholic who cares not for his wife’s happiness, her sexual satisfaction, nor her autonomy.  By way of illustration: bringing the clandestine couple’s murder to a head is a rather shocking and tragic point where the husband (not knowing his wife has fallen in love with the other man) announces personally devastating news to Cora – he has sold the business they owned together (that she loved) and will now export her to Nowheresville up North where she is expected to spend the rest of her days taking care of him and his invalid sister. She objects strenuously but he insists on his unilateral course of action. The scene played very differently than it might in a film made with contemporary mores and concerning modern marriages: I imagined with my blood running cold how many women were really put in such powerless and humiliating positions. Not that these circumstances excuse murder: of course not (see Strangers on a Train review below indicating when a film decides spousal murder is pretty dern convenient)!

Given the douchiness of the husband and a certain narrative sympathy for the couple in distress – and a palpable but not smutty chemistry between Turner and Garfield – I can honestly say it’s the only noir I’ve seen so far where I was hoping the “bad guys” would get away with it; after all, when they finally succeed in offing the offending spouse, it’s disguised as the type of accident he might well have had himself on one of his drinking and driving benders – and at least with Nick and Cora’s plot, no one else dies. Also, I dunno; I found Garfield and Turner rather convincing, human, and oddly fragile – an odd and relatively rare trait in a murder/love triangle twist film.

But, in the end – and in true noir fashion – their evil deeds (and presumably Cora’s sluttitude) end with them served their “punishment”: just not through the expected channels (gee, lots of car crashes in California!). I guess we can’t hope for Happily Ever After for people who have the seed of evil in their hearts.

There is apparently an 80′s version of this film starting Jessica Lange and Jack Nicholson as the murderous couple. However I’m willing to bet Nicholson’s drifter character is more of a jerk contrasted with Garfield’s sweetness and earnestness, and that the whole thing is a bit more porny. I’ll pass.

Strangers on a Train (1951)

I’d like to label this film in the vein of “When Douchebags Meet Psychopaths”, and it’s a familiar enough trope. The Douchebag here is Guy Haines (played well by Farley Granger), a up-and-coming tennis pro cum-politician, married to some small-town trollop who won’t divorce him even though he’s now in love with a senator’s daughter (played by Anne Morton). The Psychopath in the story is Bruno Anthony (a fine performance by Robert Walker), a clever and freakishly immoral man who – on the title-mentioned train trip – more or less intuits Guy’s personal problems and decides they can render one another a service: Bruno can murder Guy’s wife, and Guy can murder Bruno’s tyrannical father. Both will benefit from the murder remaining unsolved (since as strangers they will leave no trace of motive) and the ability for the benefiting party to form a perfect alibi. Bruno – who turns out more obsessive, intelligent, and psychopathic than he even at first appears – goes through with his (or rather, Guy’s) murder and then levels this “favor” against Guy for reciprocation. Guy, instead of going immediately to the police (duh!), dithers about and tries to outsmart the very smart Psychopath he’s unwittingly bedded with. All of this proceeds without anyone giving a fiddler’s f**k about the wife who got murdered. And you know what the film reminds me of most in terms of social-sexual mores and film’s “hero”? 1987′s Fatal Attraction – except in this Hitchcock film the Psychopath that the Douchebag finds difficult for his (im)moral convenience isn’t a lover, per se (although the film certainly has that feel between Bruno and Guy… and actor Granger was gay), but a murderous stalker of other inclinations.

Back to the big picture: Hitchcock’s tension and mastery of camera-as-persona are in full effect here, and Robert Walker as Bruno does a fabulous job as a murdering obsessive creep. I would say 80% of my enjoyment was watching his excellent stalkery of Guy. As for the plot, it ambles about in more or less unexpected directions but doesn’t give us too many Hitchcock money-shots: one dramatic climax of the film involves an exceedingly boring tennis match concomitant to several minutes fumbling in a storm gutter (and no those aren’t euphemisms).

And let’s put it out there: I love Hitchcock’s films, but he had some issues around women. With one exception the females in the film are of the following: murdered violently, silly old dowagers, nerdy kid sisters. And then there’s the role of Ruth, the senator’s daughter and Guy’s new arm-candy. Ruth is exceedingly ornamental, taking turns looking either elegant, scared, or, upon aiding and abetting her boyfriend’s cover-u, female-deceptive (eyebrow raised and eyes and voice downcast).

The film is supposed to be less about two separate “strangers” so much as the concept of the Id or psychic doppelgänger – Bruno really is a part of Guy: the socially-unacceptable part of an outworldly very socially urbane man (Hitchcock seems to have directed under a working belief that those in the upper stratum really shouldn’t have to bother with the same rules as the proles). From the film’s perspective Guy in a way is guilty of the murder – not just Accessory After The Fact – because he knows he wanted it to happen (I was reminded of the words of Jesus cited in the book of Matthew: sin in the heart is cut from the same cloth as sin committed in the flesh).

Yet, if the smart film critics are correct and Bruno embodies Guy’s dark desire to murder his wife, and the wife does in fact get murdered – with Guy’s accessory to the fact, if not implicated more strictly – then what is to be said about the fact Guy suffers nothing over this besides a little sweat (while playing tennis), a full pardon, and a new girlfriend Upgraydd? Almost comically, the physical struggle finale in the film takes place on an implausibly out-of-control carousel at a fair: a number of women and children are maimed (some perhaps killed) but the many policemen arriving the scene are most concerned with helping Guy – a murder suspect! – in straightening the whole thing out so he can get back home to his Trophy Girlfriend/New Wife as soon as possible. The last scene in the film we see young Haines with his beautiful and supportive beau on his arm, his tennis victory secure, that whole messy divorce nimbly side-stepped. There is a lighthearted, whimsical musical theme playing and all is Right for Guy.

So apparently, if you’re a white upwardly-mobile dude, it is okay to abet, benefit from, wish for, or cover up murder of an unwanted spouse.

Also: tennis, even when filmed by an amazingly adroit director = kinda boring.

Dial M For Murder (1954)

This is one of my favorite films. It isn’t just the Hitchcockian “genius” we hear about in terms of suspense, tight talky drama, and great camera work. Among other things we have a near-perfect little chess match intrigue, a lot of civilly-dressed viciousness and bad behavior, and an ability to use the camera as storytelling device and suspense mechanism such that a one room play becomes an edge-of-the seat viewing experience. The film manages to win with me despite two absolute cipher performances in two of the lead roles: Grace Kelly as Margot Mary Wendice – the bored (and boring) socialite wife having an affair with Mark Halliday (played by Robert Cummings), her Boring McBoringson American boyfriend and detective novelist.

So who does bring the story to life? I’m so glad you ask. I am a huge, huge Ray Milland fan, and he plays Tony Wendice, the ex-professional tennis player (what’s up with Hitchcock and tennis?) who has ostensibly retired to hang out with his restless and childish (but beautiful) wife and seems contented enough. But what he knows, and we know, is that she had an affair a year ago. And instead of confronting her or divorcing her, his ruthless mind comes up with a plan to appease his cuckolded vanity and keep him on the high hog, financially (by the way, please do not view 1998′s A Perfect Murder starring Viggo and Paltrow, the premise of which was lifted from this far, far superior film). Milland plays his role with a rapier-sharp elegant (and secretive) cruelty that was a pleasure to watch. He is threatened and possibly matched, however, by Chief Inspector Hubbard as played by John Williams. Wiliams gives another pleasurable performance to watch – and one I feel has been copied or inspired many since portrayals.

There is, Kelly and Cummings’ dull performances notwithstanding, so much to like about the film, especially considering the “action” is mostly, well, talking. One scene involving a police interrogation of Margot uses Milland’s striking eyes and intensity, along with brilliant camera work, to create more tension than one would think possible (there’s also, sadly, a later scene involving Margot and a trial that is ridiculously spurious and rushed). I found myself relating to Milland’s villainy just because he planned it so good, and he recovered from mishaps so proficiently. Damn, my man was smoooove.

Another thing: despite the brutality of the subject matter, the film is just so mannered. The greasy low-class would-be killer engaged by Wendice still dresses smartly and looks as refined as a fellow in a vintage ad for Listerine Shave Cream; it is the loudness of the suit jacket, the mustache, and the very subtle coarseness of his demeanor that separates him from the more civilized – if more unprincipled – Mr. Wendice. And the film, I kid thee not, ends with a variation  of “[Queen's English voice] Oh dear, you seem to have discovered I was trying to murder you all along, how frightfully embarassing [insert posh British laughter]!” I would imagine this is nothing like real murder, but in my fantasy world it’s somehow delicious.

Speaking of displays of conversational civility, my family learned a little something for this film: the phrase, “Go on.” As in, a murder-minded blackmailer is explaining to you just how he’s caught you in his web of deciet and cleverness and is now forcing a fiendish scheme upon you? Or perhaps your married, elegant mistress is explaining to you she thinks her husband figured out the two of you were having an affair and he is now acting cagey and suspicious? What to do in the face of such awkward news when you’re not quite sure if your goose is cooked? Take an elegant drag off your cigarette and say, “Go on,” and lean forward interestedly.

My family does this all the time – from the eldest to the littlest. “Go on.” Try it; it works wonders.

Mentioned:

The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946)
Strangers on a Train (1951)
Fatal Attraction (1987)
Dial M For Murder (1954)
A Perfect Murder (1998)

Image above courtesy

Tagged
Jun 13 2009
culture, feminism, film revue

film feministe: the cinematic man-child and his perpetual harem of willing, nubile females

Happy Sailing!

Last night my husband and I spent a few sawbucks to watch the latest film starring Will Ferrell, Land of the Lost. Since we have young children and a working class income, a night with just the two of us is usually spent in simple pleasures: dinner together, a bit of housekeeping, a glass of wine and a silly film. Both of us, though we enjoyed this latest inane Ferrell comedy (the meat and potatoes of our mindless entertainment proclivities), were disappointed by the disturbing yet somehow boring repetitions of the same racist, sexist, and heterosexist foibles we keep seeing in today’s featured blockbuster comedies.

Land of the Lost evidences the seminal properties that define what I call the Man-Boy Movie. Ferrell plays Dr. Rick Marshall, a version of character repeated in countless comedies du jour, including Superbad, The Break Up, Knocked Up, Don’t Mess With The Zohan, Step Brothers, Hot Rod, Old School – I could go on. Marshall may somehow be an advanced scientist but is more importantly a middle-aged man uncouth, stupid – although somehow intelligent enough to create a revolutionary piece of scientific equipment – profane, and socially backwards. Anna Friel plays Holly Cantrell, in a winsome turn at Worshipping Girl Scientist. Danny McBride plays Will, a redneck, substance-abusing, pyrotechnic sidekick (more about him in a minute). Once in the Land of the Lost they are joined by Cha-Ka, a primate-like being played by Jorma Taccone, and the film follows the foursome through various comedic shennanigans based on a mere skeletal frame of a plot.

Ferrell’s potrayal is just as we’d expect (as listed above) – yet still, in my opinion, the performance managed to be very funny. Holly, on the other hand, is something different: her character is composed almost entirely of equal quantities of plucky cheerleader speeches, hero-worship in the case of Marshall (we are unsure as to how he deserves this), and a remarkable patience and fortitude whilst being sexually harassed, fondled, and diminished by all three male characters (including the humanoid Cha-Ka). Supposedly Holly is an empowered, intelligent woman; but she is none of these qualities so much that she’d inconvenience the bad behaviors of the males of the film. For instance, at the outset of the adventure Will comments to her, in so many words, she will find an upcoming adventure so thrilling her vagina will get moist. She threatens him with drowning should he speak to her this way again. But as the film proceeds we see this is an empty threat: similar comments, and an almost incessant amount of unwelcomed breast-fondling, are repeated regularly – and Holly takes no action to stop these. Her pluckiness and intelligence, therefore, serve only as a foil for her male co-stars, in such a way as to always help and never hamper.

She is also, of course, young and heteronormatively mainstream beautiful (she is also, of course, white), typical fare for these kinds of films. We are spared no details in an exploration of Ferrell and McBride’s very human physiques – a pool scene, half nudity, fat rolls, and many closeups on their faces showing every pore, greasy hair follicle, and wrinkle. Anna by comparison is framed through a dewey lense of flawlessness, presented in an immaculate tank top, hotpants, little girl braids, and impeccable makeup (I am skipping over the odd fact that in the orginial television series Holly and Will were Rick’s children; Anna as Ferrell’s romantic and sexual interest resembles something between Science Barbie and a teenage daughter). And most regrettable of all, although we are afforded long addresses by Rick and Will discussing their eating habits, the adventure of collecting hadrosaur urine (don’t ask), their life’s ambitions, their camp songs, their twisted view of the world and their harebrained, silly shemes – all we know about Anna is she went to Cambridge at some point and then attached herself to Rick’s scientific methods. For all intensive purproses Anna is a one-dimensional beauty, not anything approaching a three-dimensional person.

Because, for me, the most disturbing part of the Man-Boy movies is not so much the presence of young, heteronormatively beautiful females, but the lack of character and comedic fairness afforded to them. Part of the “Average Guy / Hot Girl” phenomenan (although, notably, the men featured in these films are “average” in looks and physicality, while their behavior often contains greater than average components of near-sociopathic behavior, personal ineptitude, aggressiveness, and sometimes sadism) – is that the bumbling hero will end up with a woman in some grey area of supermodel / mom – she being afforded only the most superficial character traits of these socially-prescribed categories. Another article refers to this as “the current generation of romantic comedies that pair aged boy doofuses with women who are far more mature and responsible.” Yes, the morality and intelligence of the females in these films is notably more developed than the male, but it’s also boring. They are beautiful, humorless (although they allow poor behaviors to go mostly unchecked so therefore show some tolerance), devoted to their deeply-troubled males, and serve very little besides eye candy and a sort of “prize” for our heroes. It’s frustrating so few moviegoers speak out about this.

Because in film it seems we find old, ugly, fat, comedic or flawed females as either A. the butt of the joke, or B. completely unable to carry our interest in a typical lead role. Taking the analysis, only briefly, up to better caliber of film, consider last year’s The Wrestler. Mickey Rourke was touted as not only giving a good performance but achieving heights of physical inhabitance in his turn as the scarred, battered, beaten-up hard-living professional athlete at the end of his career. The filmmakers’ choice for his counterpart? Marissa Tomei as the “aging stripper”. Really? Is that what an old, blousy stripper typically looks like? Taken as one film, you cannot really find fault; but why is this what we see, over and over, an uninteresting but repetitive variation of Beauty and the Beast? Because we would not find an ugly, “old”, deeply flawed (or all three!) woman relatable or worthy of much notice or interest.

It’s worth a brief mention: Danny McBride’s rendition of Will is also problematic. Within seconds of our introduction to this man he has spewed forth a few varieties of verbal vomit: elaborating on his future plan to build a massive casino complete with huge parking lot, taking a wife to mate with and then, if she’s not pleasing, imprisoning her in the far wing of the gold-leaf massive building which features a prominent racist charicature of a Native American (I am not making this up!). The character of Will bothers me almost more than Anna, because he provides us the opportunity to laugh at “rednecks” and their backwardness, but also get our giggles on the racist, sexist, and heterosexist behaviors (identical to those displayed for decades past) he mawkishly provides. Ultimately during the film Will becomes a far more relatable, if still crude, character. And this, to me, is a good thing. These films are in the final analysis buddy movies; and this is one reason I enjoy and continue to watch them.

Because yes: I laugh with crude, profane humor, I love depictions of playful – and yes, at times asinine – friendships, and I fiercely enjoy random, inane comedy. The funny moments in Land of the Lost – and there were many – were those where the camera lingered on Ferrell or Will as they were allowed to perform as unbalanced and very human characters with their own stories, their own weirdnesses. Why was this not afforded to the sole female in the film?

Too much analysis? I don’t think so. We have seen these same patterns, this same diminishment to the female, repeated in not only today’s Judd Apatow vehicles but movies spanning back through my cinematic memory. Pop culture is both a window into how we view our world and a mirror for which we can gaze, reflect, and self-correct. When we see a slew of same-minded pheomena, it can be informative to investigate why these memes exist, what they say about our culture, why they’re appreciated, and when and why they should carry some misapprehension.

I have decided it will only be when we have more female writers, directors, and producers, and more intelligent, discerning, and fair-minded men involved in the process that I can enjoy these comedies not just in my gut but in my mind and heart. In the meantime, I will enjoy the slapstick moments, the silly references to sexual appetite, the unnecessary and aggressive “fuck you’s!”, the odd impersonations and absurd and unbelievable scenarios Ferrell and his ilk deliver, as best I can.

Further reading: “Ah, Hollywood, where men will be boys”

***

Photo credit: “happy sailing” from x_ray_ on Flickr; used under Creative Commons license Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC BY-SA 2.0).

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