Craiger’s Cinema Corner

***  out of  ****

 

“The battle is approaching its end. Since the enemy’s landing, even the gods would weep at the bravery of the officers and men under my command….”

- Japanese General

Kuribayashi

in a radio message to Imperial Japanese Army during the Battle of Iwo Jima

Clint Eastwood – without a shadow of a doubt – is one of the cinema’s most admired and respected of filmmakers.  I guess that is why I found his FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS disappointing as a somewhat misguided work that lacked a bit of the 76-year-old’s trademark discipline.  The film was a fiercely ambitious look at how the American Government mythologized the famous portrait of US soldiers raising their country’s flag at Iwo Jima (as taken by Joe Rosenthal) in 1945.  It was arguably the most famous photo ever taken and Eastwood (alongside co-writer Paul Haggis and Executive Producer Steven Spielberg) explored how governmental stooges in Washington milked the image for everything it was worth (and for what it was not worth) in an effort to make heroes into those that may not have deserved it and to help rally the country in the war effort.

FLAGS had something legitimate to say and – for the most part – Eastwood and company were successful at showcasing how three soldiers in particular became instant celebrities for their “brave actions” at Iwo Jima and how each one dealt with their new-found hero status.  FLAGS was a rare war film in the way that its combat was not the primary element of the film; it was the psychological war on the home front, where the so-called heroes are paraded around from one cocktail party and rally to another.  They were posters boys for patriotism and valor, even when – in reality – there were countless others that made deeper sacrifices at Iwo Jima. 

The problem with FLAGS was not from a thematic perspective.  Eastwood crafted an endlessly provocative film that attempted to de-mystify an historical event that far too many have held in high regard.  That’s commendable.  Yet, the real flaw of FLAGS was in terms of its narrative flow and sloppy transitions.  The film could have benefited from a more linear story structure and could have been a much more leaner and tighter film if it did not feel the need to segue back and forth from the past the present.  It was also marred by a few needless tertiary subplots.  It was, as I described in my review, a “narrative jigsaw puzzle with too many pieces that are forced to fit together.”

Because of my disappointment with FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS, it was with great eagerness that I approached its companion film, LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA.  Eastwood filmed both FLAGS and LETTERS back-to-back and always envisioned them complimenting one another in an effort to provide the viewer with the most complete portrayal of one of the most famous battles in war history.  By the director’s own admission, LETTERS was not always a film that was designed to be made at all and it was only while making FLAGS that he realized that there was a larger story to tell than just the American experience.  As is often the case with films about WWII, the enemies that the Allies fought were faceless.  We never got to know them.  They were – even to an extent in Eastwood’s own FLAGS – anonymous men that were evil and were prey to American rifle fire.

In many ways, LETTERS represents a desire to address this deficiency that has plagued countless other war films.  Yet, the very noble approach to the subject matter is also what makes LETTERS an oddly ironic film.  If anything, LETTERS is arguably the first film to be told overwhelmingly from the Japanese perspective.  The film is almost entirely filmed with Japanese actors speaking in their foreign tongue (alongside Mel Gibson’s APOCALYPTO, it is 2006’s other foreign language film directed by an English speaking Hollywood filmmaker) and approaches the battle of Iwo Jima entirely from their eyes.  Interestingly, the Americans become the “faceless” and vile enemies that are ripe for the kill.  It’s a curious role reversal – the enemies in FLAGS are now the humanized and sympathetic heroes in LETTERS.  They most certainly were “heroes” if you consider the terrible odds they faced.  They would have to battle 100,000 American troops without air or naval support.  There was only 20,000 of them.  Many of them fought until the end; only 296 suurendered.

This, of course, begs the question: does LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA paradoxically suffer from the same problems that has impeded Westernized and American-centric portrayals of the 1945 battle of Iwo Jima?  American films about WWII have been criticized for a lack of focus on the Japanese prerogative of the events.  FLAGS OF FATHERS is kind of guilty of this as well, albeit to a smaller degree.  Now comes LETTERS, which sort of repeats the same mistake.  In its case, it squarely deals with the Japanese perspective and puts Yankee viewpoints to the background.  Now, both films, it could be said, should be viewed as companion pieces to the other.  Yet, one has to consider how strong and powerful a single, three hour-plus WWII epic could have been if it combined the best of FLAGS and the best of LETTERS.  Strangely enough, segregating the two films apart from one another sort of stunts their overall effectiveness as individual works.

However, LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA is still a daring and challenging war film that dives into territory other American directors have never dared to cross.  The film certainly represents Eastwood’s most bold and concentrated effort: a film – all performed in Japanese with English subtitles – about the Japanese experience awaiting the attack of American forces during the early months of 1945 at Iwo Jima.  Even more crucial is the way Eastwood is able to take its foreign elements and infuse familiarity into them.  Clearly, this is not a red, white, and blue look at WWII.  This is from the lenses of those that have been the “enemy” and – by showing them at their most dire and vulnerable - we see the most basic elements of human nature at play.  LETTERS could be the first WWII film to make us completely sympathize with and relate to the Japanese.

Ethnicity is almost secondary to the film; we can see ourselves in these soldiers.  It certainly is hard not to see the futility of their plight.  Past war films have showcased the Japanese as being stern, remorseless, and invincible enemies.  Much like how FLAGS was a revisionist look at a misconceived war photo, LETTERS attempts to infuse truth into the typical Japanese soldier.  These men were fierce and determined warriors, but they were far from being invulnerable. 

Oftentimes they are short on food, water, ammunition and even more so on optimism.  A few of the soldiers speak of going AWOL and abandoning their posts, seeing that hope is lost.  It sure seems that they have no chance of winning the battle.  They are unable to get reinforcements, their gear and communications devices are broken, they have no air cover, and oftentimes the men can’t even be relayed orders to on the field.  The Japanese were not as powerful as many past films highlighted them as being.  LETTERS also indirectly ponders a great what-if scenario: if the Japanese were better equipped and prepared, would the Americans have succeeded?  LETTERS does not spend too much time dealing with such questions, but they linger in the background.

LETTERS – unlike FLAGS – takes place almost exclusively at Iwo Jima.  It begins several months before the conflict in late 1944, during which time General Tadamichi Kuribayashi (the great Ken Watanabe) arrives.  The Japanese seem clear that this will be an inevitable target of the Americans, so it is up the general and company to make suitable arrangements for its defense.  The general makes quick and abrupt changes to the work already put in place before his arrival.  Most crucially, he takes artillery off of the beaches and deploys them to higher ground (a smart move, in some respects) and gets soldiers to dig a series of tunnels in the mountain to shield them from enemy fire from ground and air.  Some sees the general’s new tactics as foolhardy.

His story is offset by several other stories of the men that fought.  We get a grunt’s POV in the form of a simple solider Saigo (Kazunari Ninomiya) who relays in sad letters to his wife back home that they dig holes for the men to fight and eventually die in.  To a large degree, it is this character that is the most crucial to the film’s ability to re-evaluate the Japanese solider in WWII.  Like many American soldiers (both in the past and today) he rigidly questions his country’s involvement in what he sees as a suicide mission.  He also physically looks so baby-faced and innocent that his visage alone cracks the stereotype of the grim and remorseless Japanese fighter.

Perhaps the most fascinating persona in the film is Baron Nishi (played very well by Tsuyoshi Ihara) who was an Olympic equestrian hero that partied with the likes of Douglas Fairbanks in Hollywood before war broke out.  He comes to the island almost as an icon of American vigour and heroism (he gallops on the sands with his champion horse as a morale booster).  He is involved in the film’s best scene where he strikes up a conversation with a young wounded American soldier that they have captured.  Instead of killing the lad, he orders him to be taken care of.  Baron is friendly to the US grunt, shakes his hand, and wins him over with stories of having dinner with Fairbanks and Mary Pickford.  It’s one of the rarest instances of a WWII film having a thoughtful exchange between an American and Japanese soldier in the middle of battle.

LETTERS is on its most assured footing when it deals with these expendable Japanese soldiers and the code of honor that many of them are forced to live by.  In some instances – as is the case with one grizzly and unforgettable moment – suicide is more honorable than getting killed by American soldiers, and we see teary-eyed Japanese men literally grenade themselves to death in fear of being captured or killed.  The most shocking element of the film is the fierce pride that the Japanese have.  Some would rather die under their own hands instead of by those of the enemy.  It’s also interesting how Eastwood indirectly makes analogies to modern American military campaigns.  Like in Iraq, the Japanese are a lot whose morale is low and have very little support from the homeland.  They are fighting a psychological war as well.

The battle scenes – as with FLAGS – are bloody and messy, and Eastwood and his special effects crew create some memorable images of the American invasion (however, many memorable shots from FLAGS are reinserted back into LETTERS, and a bit too obviously).  Eastwood’s other aesthetic choices are intriguing, like filming LETTERS in close-to black and white (seemingly all color is washed out of the film, to perhaps increase the darkness and ambivalence of the time and battles).  Most of the action occurs less on the battlefield and more in the desolate caves, which Eastwood gives the rightful amount of eerie atmosphere and chilling foreboding.

Character development in LETTERS is a step above FLAGS, perhaps because the film focuses a bit more on the players and a little less so on the mayhem and battle action.  The performances also are an overall marked improvement, with Ken Watanabe leading the charge as the calculating and always commanding Kuribayashi.  He is not one of those typical emotionless military heads; he too has a life and family and yearns for an end to the war, even when he realizes that his death seems like a foregone conclusion.  Also powerful was the work of Tsuyoshi Ihara as the Olympic hero and Kazunari Ninomiya as the meager- mannered soldier.  The three strong performances here help augment the film’s more dense and layered focus.

There are a few instances where LETTERS follows FLAGS’ path by jumping into flashbacks and then flash forwards back to the present.  There are decent scenes where we see the general dine with American dignitaries far before war between the two nations erupted, as well as other moments of the family pre-war lives of soldiers.  As with FLAGS, these scenes seem kind of haphazardly edited in at incorrect times of the film, which often abruptly affects the narrative flow of the piece.  Also, LETTERS needlessly is bookended by a redundant little subplot of modern excavators going through the Japanese tunnels.  Unfortunately, LETTERS uses the same awkward flashback structure and unnecessary plot elements that FLAGS used, but thankfully to less severe effect.  At 141 minutes, LETTERS could have been a more balanced and structured film that did not feel long to sit through.

In direct comparison to its companion film, FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS, Clint Eastwood’s LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA suffers from a few of the same faults (unnecessary narrative segues and redundant storylines), but on the whole it is a noticeable improvement in terms of having the understanding and wisdom to focus its story on the most forgotten soldiers of the battle of Iwo Jima: the Japanese.  As a stirring and intoxicating war-role-reversal film, LETTERS dares to make tough concessions by dealing with personas that have oftentimes been considered evil and despicable enemies in too many past WWII films.  It is LETTERS’ strongly humanized portrayal of the Japanese warriors that allows it to stand far apart from other war films, FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS included.  Both films wisely reminds the viewer that – yes – there were nearly 7000 US men that lost there lives at the Battle of Iwo Jima, but there were also nearly 20,000 Japanese casualties.  At its weakest, LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA lacks discipline (as did FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS), but while directing comparing the two works, it stands apart from FLAGS as the stronger film.  To their ultimate credit, both films take fully entrenched, preconceived notions about WWII’s famous battle and turns them upside down with a fresh perspective, and only a veteran talent like Eastwood could have had the foresight to attempt it. 

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***1/2  out of  ****

In our age of pessimism and nihilism in the movies, it’s somewhat gratifying to see that films like DREAMGIRLS still get made.  Like a breath of proverbial fresh air, Bill Condon’s adaptation of the original 1981 Broadway smash does what every great movie musical should do: it endears and entertains with it’s flashy exuberance, boisterous song and dance numbers, and overwhelmingly goes out of its way to be a fun and pleasurable romp. 

More importantly, it’s a musical that does one thing absolutely right – it transports the viewer.  DREAMGIRLS works magnificently as a film to be experienced more than watched.  I think that is the overall key to the classic films of the genre.  They are primarily concerned with showmanship, vitality, and energy.  DREAMGIRLS has all of those qualities.

It seemed that we were in a relative re-emergence of the movie musical during the last seven years.  When MOULIN ROUGE came out in 2001 (and amassed several Oscar nominations, including Best Picture), it gave a newfound respect to the then dead film genre.  Then came CHICAGO the following year and – astoundingly – it went on to be the first musical to win Best Picture since the early seventies.  Despite the fact that CHICAGO was not half the film that ROUGE was (and – in my humble opinion – one of the most undeserving Best Picture winners of the last twenty years), the film looked like it was going to revive the musical back in full form.

Well, that never really happened.

There were some false starts in the wake of CHICAGO’s success (2004’s PHANTOM OF THE OPERA was decent, but not a home run), as well as some abysmal failures (like the categorically awful RENT from last year), and some odd, yet wickedly entertaining, entries (2005’s THE PRODUCERS probably marked the first film remake of a remake of a remake).  Now comes DREAMGIRLS, which is the finest musical since MOULIN ROUGE and may have the power to truly rekindle and jumpstart the often-staling genre for good.

Bill Condon, a fine filmmaker (he made the fascinating KINSEY in 2004 and the equally compelling GODS AND MONSTERS in 1998), is no stranger to musicals.  He wrote CHICAGO and has gone on record to say that DREAMGIRLS was his dream project since he saw the opening night performance of it at the Imperial Theatre in New York in 1981.  When the original stage production became hugely successful (it ran for over 1500 performances), several attempts were made to bring it to the big screen.  In the late 80’s Whitney Huston was attached to headline the film and in the early 1990’s Joel Schumacher was set to direct.  Once CHICAGO was a smash Condon swooped in and DREAMGIRLS finally got the big screen treatment many believed it deserved.

DREAMGIRLS may look superficially like it’s an autobiographical look at the rise of The Supremes (Mary Wilson, founding member of that trio, said that the events in the musical were “closer to truth” than many think).  Truth be told, it focuses squarely on an African American diva group called “The Dreams” through the 1960’s and 1970’s.  Beyond that, DREAMGIRLS is not just a glossy and colorful film with show-stopping songs; it actually has something legitimate to say about the history of Motown and the evolution of American R&B music over the last half a century. 

Clearly, DREAMGIRLS is not fresh in terms of its overall story arc (that of a group of impressionable young entertainers that hope to achieve fame and let their future success lead them down a deep, dark chasm of immorality), but the subject matter behind the story is kind of fascinating and revealing.  DREAMGIRLS is one of those rare musicals that is both African-centric and tells a tale of the music industry from the marginalized point of view.  There are some cold truths along the way, like how the white establishment trumps obvious vocal talent for the sake of selling more albums the white masses. 

There is one vile little scene in the film where one song by a famous black singer affectionately called “Cadillac Car” has all of its soul and luster ripped out of it by a generic, Pat Boone-type vocalist.  The song is not so much appropriated by the establishment as much as it is robbed and abused.  American Bandstand is not ready for the bold and lively vocals of African-America R&B stars, so producers take their songs and vanilla-ize it for the teen crowd.  There is a sad undercurrent to the history portrayed behind DREAMGIRLS.  Not only does its characters make ethically questionable decisions to make it to the top, some of them are forced to dial down their vocal gifts to appease a world that is not ready (or willing) to appreciate their music.  In a small way, DREAMGIRLS deals a lot with cultural denigration.  Themes like this are surprising for a musical, which is why the film resonates deeper.

The film spans over twenty years and concerns itself largely with the Detroit-based trio originally called “The Dreamettes.”  They include the luminous Deena (the utterly gorgeous Beyonce Knowles), the timid and mild mannered Lorrell (the plucky ad cute Anika Noni Rose) and the brash and rowdy Effie (in a scenery chewing, star making performance by Jennifer Hudson).  They also have a man behind the curtain, so to speak, in the form of Effie’s Brother, C.C. (Keith Robinson) who writes the trio’s songs.  The girls have all of the goods to make it to the top, but seem to have a difficult time getting noticed. 

One night they enter a talent show (shown in the film’s remarkably bouncy and spirited opening scene) and they are so good that they come under the attention of Curtis Taylor Jr. (Jamie Foxx).  Curtis comes across as being a “player,” but he has about as much experience as the ladies themselves (he’s a car salesman on the side).  Curtis has a dilemma early on when he needs to desperately find a back-up singer to soul legend and R&B icon James “Thunder” Early (the brilliantly wacky and jovial Eddie Murphy, absolutely channeling the late, great James Brown as if he was on speed).  Early has a penchant for three things in life: booze, drugs, and the ladies, the latter he especially loves (there is a humorous scene where he flirts with a woman and she asks if he’s married, to which he matter-of-factly responds, “Baby, everyone knows that Jimmy is married!”).

Curtis has an epiphany and decides to approach the trio and ask them if they would like the opportunity to sing backup to Early and instantly jumpstart their careers.  The girls jump at the chance…except Effie.  She’s the pride-filled pragmatist of the group.  She is their lead singer and has little desire to play second fiddle to anyone.  Curtis – being a suave and charismatic person – wins over Effie by appealing to her talent and sassiness.  She reluctantly agrees and within no time the group becomes so popular that they reach a point where going out on their own is tangible. 

There are some roadblocks along the way.  Firstly, Early has some difficulty making it on his own, especially when he is basically forced to remove the latent sexual energy and soul from his animated vocal performances to appease a broader demographic.  He dials down his work so much that his past work bares little resemblance to his current songs.  James soon begins to emotionally plummet and get hooked on drugs.  Also, as the girls are about to make a bid for the top of the charts.  Curtis nails Effie with a bombshell: Deena will now be lead singer and she will be delegated to backup.  Why?  Well, mostly because Effie is plump and not nearly the glamorous super model-type that Deena is.  Deena severely has less vocal range than Effie, and every one knows it. 

Effie pitifully lashes out – in one of the film’s more potent scenes - to Curtis, “Well, what am I supposed to do? Deena’s beautiful, and she’s always been beautiful… but I’ve got the voice, Curtis! I’ve got the voice! You can’t put me in back; you just can’t!”  The scene then leads to DREAMGIRLS’ triumphant and rousing “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going,” where Jennifer Hudson screams out to the world to forget that she was once an American Idol contestant and instead see her as a fully realized talent with remarkable range.  Her performance in the number towers over anything else in the film.  Hudson is so assured and passionate as Effie; she is the soul of the film and it sure will be tough for the Academy to forget about her come Oscar time.

This musical number, as well as several others (mostly by Murphy) has all of the wanton extravagance and spunk that you would come to expect from a musical, but the film’s messages and hurtful themes stand out even more.  As the 1960’s march on, during the which time the Civil Rights movement is in full throttle, we see the quick rise of The Dreams and especially Deena, who becomes so huge that she gets movie offers (she is the works to do a big screen musical of CLEOPATRA) and she has since married Curtis, who dumped Effie to shack up with her. 

Effie herself is blacklisted from the group and lives a life of poverty while her former soul-sisters achieve fame and fortune.  Curtis becomes a larger-than-life figure as well, becoming the head of his own record label.  If anything, the film really does not do a satisfying job of explaining Curtis’ descent from being a likeable figurehead to a mean-spirited, Ike Turner-inspired SOB.  The film sort of hammers home the sentiment with his character in an overtly telegraphed manner – that quick success can possess you and turn you into something hateful.  Foxx’s performance in the film is also its other weak point.  He’s good at playing a slimy and dictatorial manager, but he seems awkward and wooden in the song numbers, as if he does not want to be there.

The rest of the cast fares far better.  Beyonce Knowles has the majestic singing pipes to match her beauty, but Jennifer Hudson and Eddie Murphy completely steal DREAMGIRLS’ thunder.  A cursory view of Murphy’s performance here will have many SNL fans hearken back to his famous skits playing James Brown, but Murphy’s work here is such a go-for-broke, dynamic, and limitlessly crazed and wide-eyed turn that its hard not to admire his boundless enthusiasm and charm despite his character’s murky motives.  Murphy is pure, funk-filled, hip shaking, toe tapping adrenaline and he’s a larger than life presence that is alive every moment he’s on screen.  Hudson’s breakout performance as the sad and beleaguered Effie is a revelation.  She beat out 781 other actresses for the role and auditioned for over six months for the part.   He work is a dazzling triumph and forcefully dominates the film.  When she tearfully belts out “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going” its one of the great scenes of heartfelt pain and pathos ever in a musical.  

Bill Condon’s DREAMGIRLS – despite a few hiccups in some spots -  is a sizzling, bold, and unapologetically audience pleasing musical that is bound to make viewers applaud and cheer.  It has all of the right ingredients for the best films of the genre: crisp and sure-fire direction, flashy and vivacious song and dance numbers, and vocal performances of such stirring and authoritative prowess, primarily through a career making turn by Jennifer Hudson and a career rejuvenating turn by Eddie Murphy.  When the two are on screen DREAMGIRLS is boundlessly vigorous and brassy.  Amazingly, the film also has the time to sneak in some commentary about the music world, past and present, and  how artists are sold for looks first and talent second.  It tells us how African Americans nearly drowned during the Civil Rights movement in an effort to be heard and recognized.  It is the film’s effective and winning combination of rousing spectacle and thoughtful, weighty issues that makes it invigorating screen musical that sets itself apart.  DREAMGIRLS is rip-roaring in its vocal ferocity and is unabashedly entertaining.  It seems tailor-made for the Oscars and – in this rare exception – it’s deserving of such accolades.

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***  out of  ****

ALPHA DOG could have been more aptly called STUPID WHITE BOYZ FROM THE HOOD.  The film is about young twenty-something gangstas – circa late 1990’s California – that seem to have grown up worshipping the immoral street code that was prominent in films like Brian DePalma’s SCARFACE.  Certainly, the utterly wasted youths in the film (and I mean that literally and figuratively) want to be hip-hop criminals with lots of street cred.  However, their main problem – and the most fascinating angle to Nick Cassavetes’ ALPHA DOG – is that these dudes are hopelessly incompetent when it comes to pulling off crimes.   That’s the film’s hook that kind of separates it from being just another run-of-the-mill take on degenerate youth crime.  Its would-be criminals are all bark and no bite.  To quote Joe Pesci from CASINO, these guys could “f - - k up a cup of coffee.”

This is a gangster film primarily concerned with false facades and the inability of the male bravado to admit when one is incapable of action.  Consider the main hoodlum in the film, Johnny Truelove (Emile Hirsch).  He thinks he is one bad ass that can intimidate his way through anything.  He’s in his late teens and is a tough, trash talking goodfella that dabbles in high stakes drug dealing.  He has in own pad, his own posse, and an endless supply of women and “product” at his disposal.  He is a teen with delusions of grandeur.  He worships the Hollywood icons of his vocation (he has a gigantic poster of Tony Montoya in his bedroom and he and his cohorts throw out enough f-bombs to even make that SCARFACE baddie blush with envy).

There is one problem with Johnny and his entourage: They are utterly clueless about pulling off certain crimes.  As a matter of fact, when they eventually decide to commit kidnapping as a way to extort a buyer that has failed on his payment, none of the young thugs have any clue that kidnapping is a federal offence that could lead to life in prison.  Furthermore, once they get deep into the act itself, they make such cardinal blunders that they deserve to have their visages appear openly on the next installment of “America’s Dumbest Criminals.”  Certainly, these doped up rejects are so bombed half the time that they really have no concept of the repercussions of their actions, not to mention that they make one of the single largest mistakes of kidnapping:  Never - and I mean never - parade around your hostage all over town all night long in front of literally dozens of eye witnesses that will most likely rat you out later. 

ALPHA DOG should be required viewing for how not to commit a crime.  The stoner punks have the look and attitude of criminals, but when it comes right down to it, they are ditzy amateurs.  Their lifestyle goes to prove that endless partying and binge drinking can lead to foggy flights of fancy that ends up with one making horrific decisions.  On these levels, Cassavetes paints an unrelentingly bleak and unapologetically hostile look of young men that are – most likely – beyond saving.  These are not the type of downtrodden youth that can be taken away from their lives of chronic all-nighters of drinking and sex.  These are men that are so entranced with the iconography of the American gangster that nothing will pull them out.  Not even their own incompetence at being crooks. 

ALPHA DOG is the reality-based story that finds inspiration in the exploits of Jesse James Hollywood, who at one point became the youngest person in the history of the FBI to appear on their Ten Most Wanted list (he was 20 at the time).  He was a very wealthy teen that grew into a world of drug dealing and amassed such a wealth that – by the time he was closing in on his twenties – he was able to buy a $200,000 property in the San Fernando Valley and collection of exotic sports cars.  He lived the life of affluent excess.  One of his clients, Benjamin Markowitz, owed him a relatively small debt of $1200 that he did not pay up to Hollywood.  To make matters worse, Markowitz threatened to leak out a huge insurance scam that Hollywood was involved in.  As result, Hollywood and his goons decided to strike first and kidnapped Benjamin’s younger half-bother, Nicolas.  Nicolas himself was treated remarkably well and his abduction was more or less a few days of socializing, playing video games, and drinking. 

Hollywood called his attorney during the abduction for some consultation, to which he reportedly told him that kidnapping could get him some serious jail time.  Realizing that he could not give his captive back, Hollywood made a dire decision.  On August 12, 2000 he got a few of his men to take Nicolas to the mountains north of Goleta, California where they murdered him and hide the body.  Hindsight would prove that this was a horrendously stupid call on Hollywood’s part (never call your attorney for advice on beating a kidnapping rap and then – after you get bad news – whack the captive).  Even more inane was the fact that the abductors that killed Nicolas passed some hikers on the way through the mountains.  Obviously, they never had the brains to realize that these casual hikers could piece two and two together later. 

Hollywood bailed quickly when the body was discovered.  After being on the run – amazingly – for over five years he was apprehended in Brazil and his trial is scheduled for later in 2007.  His other cohorts have already been tried and convicted, some receiving many years in prison, some doing life, some serving death row sentences.  If anything, Hollywood should be convicted on the grounds of remarkable idiocy. 

Cassavetes’ film is a stridently faithful recreation of the events of the kidnapping and murder.  It’s an extremely dense and layered work; it’s part reconstruction of the key events that unfolded and part fictional dramatization (some names were changed, some characters invented).  The film also takes on the aura of a lurid, pseudo-documentary where witnesses and players are interviewed by a nameless and unidentified reporter.  This technique, combined with Cassavetes’ stylish, unsteady camera shots and quick editing, creates a dark, grungy, and unsavory look at his punks and their lifestyles.  If anything, the fact that the film contains youth at their most vile, repugnant and distasteful is to its ultimate credit.  You may not like any of the characters, per se, on any redeemable level, but Cassavetes and the actors pull it all of with a level of gritty realism and polish. 

Perhaps the film’s sense of explicit and sensationalistic reality stems from the fact that the real life prosecutors opened up all of their files to the film crew, which ended up allowing ALPHA DOG to feel well documented.  This also allowed legal action by the defense attorneys against Cassavetes and the studio.  The attorneys even sought an injunction to not have the film screened at the Sundance Film Festival last year.  Nevertheless, the film screened as planned, but it’s major North American release date was pushed from May 2006 to January 2007.

The film follows the build up to and the eventual crime itself, as well as its grisly aftermath.  We meet Johnny Truelove (Hirsch) and his fellow gangbangers: Frankie Ballenbacher (the surprisingly effective Justin Timberlake) and Elvis Schmidt (Shain Hatosy).  We see the falling out that Johnny has with his customer, Jake Mazursky (played in a chilling and hyperactive performance by the underrated Ben Foster), who owes him money, but won’t pay up.  Eventually, the you know what hits the fan and – within no time – Johnny takes Jake’s younger half-brother, Zach (Anton Yelchin) hostage.  Zach’s parents (especially his overprotective mother, played memorably in a small role by Sharon Stone) desperately fears for the kid’s life.  Meanwhile, Johnny’s father (Bruce Willis) and his grandfather (Harry Dean Stanton) try to steer Johnny right so he does not make a decision that will cost him his life.

Now, you’d think that Zach would be like food thrown to hungry lions in the captivity of Johnny’s men.  Hardly.  Startlingly, Zach welcomes his situation, maybe as a way of rebellion against his self-centered parents.  He’s a good, decent person, but he wants out of the good boy image that his mother and father want him to be at all times.  As a result, Zach grows to kind of worship the lifestyle of his kidnappers.  They offer him things that he could never get in suburbia, like drinking, doing drugs, and getting laid in a threesome with two unattainably attractive girls. 

He grows attached to this freewheeling life of available tramps, marijuana, booze, and – most importantly – no mommy and daddy lecturing him.  Yet, Johnny soon realizes that his kidnapping of Zach was not a smart move.  Seeing that a prison term could result, he decides that he wants Frankie and company to kill the lad and hide the body.  Interestingly, Johnny has a difficult time with the task.  He lives in Johnny’s shadow and only wishes to serve him, but his request leaves him torn and conflicted.  After all, Frankie starts to think that – dammit – Zach is a really cool kid.

The film is at its most invigorating when it deals with all of its lost boys – including the captive – struggling with their individual dilemmas.  None of them are truly likeable, which makes it kind of difficult to really emotionally relate and respond to any of them.  Zach is, arguably, the most decent in the sense that he’s kind of an innocent boy that gets sort of addictive to a destructive lifestyle.  He’s also sympathetic in the sense that he’s led on to believe that his kidnapping is all a fluff piece to get his brother to pay Johnny.  When he realizes his real fate, it’s a tense, utterly disturbing, and emotional scene in the film.  The dynamic here is even more potent with the presence of Frankie, who is not just an unprincipled kid without a heart.  Yes, Frankie has a temper, a potty mouth from hell, and gets involved with all of the wrong people, but he’s not a hellion that wants to murder some poor, defenseless teen.  It’s the relationship between the captor and the captive where ALPHA DOG really shines. 

The performances are – for the most part – excellent, with the possible exception of Hirsch himself as Johnny.  He captures the youth’s frustration and turmoil correctly, but he kind of plays the part a bit too broadly to be taking literally.  He’s not as compelling as he should have been.  Actually, the most memorable characters and performances are from the supporting players.  Justin Timberlake sheds away his musical underpinnings and crafts a poignantly layered portrait of a tragic teen figure that is consumed by a moral compass that conflicts with his duties to his “boss.”  He is ALPHA DOG’S best-written character. 

Anton Yelchin as Zach is also fine at playing a young man that is also swarmed by a lifestyle that he gets lured into for all the wrong reasons.  Two other performances are scene-stealers.  The first is by Ben Foster, who you may remember as a mutant that appeared briefly in X-MEN: THE LAST STAND and as a video game geek in THE PUNISHER.  Here he plays a warped, vengeful, and sociopathic teen that constantly looks like he’s been the crystal meth lab one too many times.  Foster is absolutely riveting as this cranked up pothead.  Even more startling is the work of Sharon Stone in one very short scene where she is interviewed after she has been committed for attempting suicide.  Her few minutes here is the finest acting she’s ever done.

ALPHA DOG looses its way a few times; it’s a bit too long for its own good and it sort of seems somewhat disjointed in its narrative construction.  Yet, Nick Cassavetes is very far removed here from his previous work (he made 2004’s tear-jerking romantic melodrama, THE NOTEBOOK) by crafting a forcefully focused and nuanced look at teen angst and unwholesomeness at its most shocking.  ALPHA DOG is not a fun and entertaining film to watch.  It’s about reprehensible and loathsome thugs that let their lifestyles of filthy debauchery lead them down terrible paths.  Because of this, the film is oftentimes hard to sit through.  However, there is no denying that ALPHA DOG is a film of slick production values, solid performances (especially by Ben Foster and Justin Timberlake), and is ultimately unflinching in how it shows the indignity of its youth, gangster lifestyle.  There is no denying the film’s high level of repulsiveness with its repellent characters and subject matter, but the fact that it is all crafted so efficiently is ultimately commendable. 

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**1/2  out of  ****

On many levels, FREEDOM WRITERS represents one of my most hated of film genres: The inspirational, inner city high school melodrama where a plucky, resourceful, and determined teacher will instruct the divergent students on how to live with one another and respect themselves.  Let’s face it - these films have been done to death in the last few years, seeing endless permutations of the basic formula.  Oftentimes, sports are thrown into the mix for good measure (as was the case with last year’s woefully derivative and perfunctory COACH CARTER). 

All of these films have the same basic ingredients and suffer from an affliction that I like to refer to as DEAD POET’S SYNDROME – or DPS.  I coined this name from the unfairly cherished coming of age educational film, DEAD POET’S SOCIETY.   You may remember that Robin Williams starred in the film as a literary teacher that used highly questionable techniques in and out of the classroom, largely against his colleagues’ approval.  He taught a ragtag group of students about life through poetry.  The boys were eventually won over by Williams’ congenial charm and irreverence.  In the process, they grow from boys to men and dealt with the fact that their beloved instructor could get the boot by his bosses.  Those upper school bosses felt that Williams used “inappropriate” teaching styles.

In short, The DPS films have these key elements:

q       Students that hate each other, but grow to understand and like one another through their teacher.

q       A young and resourceful teacher that will rock the educational status quo to get the students to bind together.

q       Angry and vindictive colleagues of the “resourceful teacher” with a heart of gold that reveal their intense disdain for the teacher’s tactics in the classroom.

q       Some sort of a hearing that calls into question whether or not the “resourceful teacher” should be allowed to continue to teach the students who – by the end of the film – love the figurehead that they once hated.

To a large degree, FREEDOM WRITERS represents yet another effort by Hollywood to cash in on this formula of downtrodden inner city students and an outsider teacher that will give them hope.  The DPS symptoms are all over this film like white on rice.  We have the young, idealistic teacher that thinks she can save these kids from their lives of misery and despair.  We have a relative cross section of degenerate gang youths that all despise their teacher trying to be empathetic with them.  We also have fellow teachers at the school that don’t take kindly to the new teacher’s willingness to use questionable techniques and to willfully avoid the curriculum.  We have the obligatorical spouse figure that complains that his wife is “married” more to her class.  Finally, we have scenes where the kids slowly grow to like and appreciate their teacher’s instruction and – inevitably – are able to overcome differences and develop into self-actualized individuals. 

It’s the overwhelmingly mechanical and preordained nature of FREEDOM WRITERS that sort of undermines its effectiveness.  Other inner city high school films have taken the road-less-traveled approach and have emerged as superior entertainments (like last year’s wonderful HALF NELSON, which I thought was one of 2006’s best films).  Unfortunately, FREEDOM WRITERS is just one more in a seemingly endless stream of good natured, noble, but disposable genre films that are easily watchable and even more easily forgotten.  It is also very teen centric (it was produced by MTV films, which essentially means that it will be a sanitized and fairly clean look at inner city life that only a PG-13 film can muster).  Films about troubled youth should be hard-edged and unflinching.  FREEDOM WRITERS seems too afraid of pushing volatile buttons.  As a result, it often lacks emotional impact.

Perhaps the film’s biggest sins are that it preaches too hard, tries too much to jerk tears from viewers’ eyes, and it paints its saintly teacher as such a unyielding…well…saint that you kind of have to scratch your head and remind yourself that the film is based on a real story.  At times, the film is able to generate genuine, heartfelt emotions and some of the scenes with the teacher and individual students are strong, but FREEDOM WRITERS suffers from too much derivativeness.  The film has moments of inspiration, but it is its penchant for not going against the genre status quo that is its undoing.  Instead of being bold and original with the material, it is just too familiar and routine.

Another thing: Why must we have such unnaturally cartoonish villains in the form of opposing teachers in films like this?  Okay, we get the point that the teacher in question – played well by Hilary Swank – is a Mother Theresa figure in the classroom that has idealism up the yin-yang.  But, c’mon, do her colleagues really need to be that antagonistic towards her tactics and methods?  One of the schoolteachers is such a hotheaded, cast iron b-i-t-c-h that she seems too mean-spirited to be taken seriously.  Also, how many more times are we going to have to be subjected to the angry spouse who suffers from jealousy that his wife takes her job more seriously than her marriage.  Oy vey.

The film takes place shortly after the L.A. riots of 1992 when – as the title cards pain to point out – when racial unrest was at its worst in America (Really?  Even more so than during the Civil Rights Movement??).  Erin Gruwell (Swank) swoops in for a moral rescue as a crusading new teacher that thinks she has want it takes to make some inner city kids believe in the power of education to change their Dangerous Minds for the better.  She chooses to work in a forced integrated school dominated by four major groups: whites, Latinos, Cambodians, and blacks. 

Her idealism is marred by her complete naivety.  After a few days she is shocked by how little the students respect her.  She also has an obstacle in the form of the English department head, Margaret Campbell (overplayed by Imelda Staunton) who believes – yikes – that inner city kids don’t give a darn about learning, so why spend money on books and materials for their education.  Erin’s only emotional recluse is with her husband (Patrick Dempsey, doing what he can with an underwritten part) and her father (Scott Glenn, also decent in a marginal role).

The film trots by with incredible and lethargic predictability.  Erin is able to slowly win over her students’ affection and creates an environment for them to really learn, often to the chagrin of her colleagues and husband, the latter whom feels she spends too much time with her students.  However, I will give FREEDOM WRITERS props for the manner with which Erin engages her students.  First, she buys them all composition books and tells them that they can write whatever they desire once a day in them.  One day is a real turning point for them all.  A classroom prank segues into a discussion of Hitler and the Holocaust.  Astoundingly, Erin discovers that most of her student have no clue about Hitler’s planned agenda with the Jews. 

Seeing this as an opportunity, Erin decides to enlighten her students to a frank lesson on The Holocaust and to open their own eyes about racial tolerance.  Yes, every similar film has sequences of the teacher “opening” their students’ eyes, but at least FREEDOM WRITERS has a unique method buried within it’s story.  Erin is able to allow her students to find correlations to Hitler’s actions to modern gang violence.  Certainly, the comparisons are a bit foolhardy, but the point that she is trying to enforce in her kids is clear.  She is really able to tap into their minds when she buys them all copies of THE DIARY OF ANN FRANK (the school has no funds to buy more books, so Erin pulls off two other part time jobs in order to fund her own curriculum).  The kids eat up the stories of the diary, so much so that one of the kids thinks they should all write letters to Miep Gies, who hid Anne from the Nazis, and ask her to come and speak at the school.  This will involve considerable time, effort, and fund raising, which Erin and her students do, much to the disappointment of Erin’s husband.  Can ya blame the guy?  At one point, he rightfully asks her, “So, you’re working at two part-time jobs outside of school to support the resources at your school job?”

The strongest moments in the film are when Erin takes them to Holocaust museum and when Gies (Pat Carroll) does come to lecture to the class, during which one student tells her that she is an inspiration to him.  The scene of her speech to the classroom is memorable and potent, as is Erin’s rather creative manner of using history’s biggest atrocity to engage her students.  Unfortunately, everything framed around this is too mournfully routine and hokey.  Even more dubious are the little details, like how Erin is such a beacon of smiles and hope, even in the midst of gang violence and fisticuffs occurring in her class.  Call me a pessimist, but I am afraid that no teacher in an inner city school could ever maintain the consistent aura of positivism and happiness that this women does in the film.  Yes, FREEDOM WRITERS is rooted in reality, but the film lacks realism.  It cries out that its ultimate aim is for veracity, but instead in labors by Hollywood norms and conventions.

Hilary Swank, who also executive produced the film, is in fine form as the teacher figure, but this character has graced the screen before in countless incarnations.  Her work here is nothing compared to her riveting portrayals in films like MILLION DOLLAR BABY and BOYS DON’T CRY, but it’s serviceable here.  Some of the supporting performances in terms of the student characters are also fine, especially by April Lee Hernandez who plays a young woman that has to make some ethical choices that could change her life.  Scott Glenn has some nice scenes with Swank and is an engaging and pleasant presence in the film.  Patrick Dempsey has a few tender moments as the frustrated husband, but he plays more of a plot element than a fully realized character.

FREEDOM WRITERS has a noble heart of gold.  It has some legitimate things so say about the inner city school curriculum and how some school boards are doing everything in their power to subjugate kids out of a quality education.  Also, the manner that the motivational teacher enlightens her beleaguered kids is also ingenious.  Yet, FREEDOM WRITERS never attains a status of anything beyond an artificial, repetitive, and formulaic motivational inner city high school melodrama that – let’s face it – we’ve seen far too much of already.  The film has respectable talent aboard and Hilary Swank brings a plucky earnestness to her part, but FREEDOM WRITERS adds nothing new to the DANGEROUS MINDS/DEAD POET’S formula.  No amount of good intentions can trump a film’s lack of credibility and sense of redundancy.  I guess its unflattering to see grade-A, multiple Oscar winning talent occupy a film that is the equivalent to week old leftovers that no one wants to eat again.  The film simply has too much heart and not enough freshness.

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****  out of  ****

During the 1970’s there was an incredible outflow of gifted directorial talent that would emerge in the movies.  Surely, this remarkably fruitful period generated some of the greatest directors to make a name for themselves in contemporary cinema.  Filmmakers like Spielberg, DePalma, Lucas, Coppola, and Scorsese dominated the period then and – to some degree – still make their presence felt.  However, it’s growing increasingly apparent that the finest new filmmaking talent to come out of the previous decade and to march forcefully into our current one are from Mexico.  In a way, we are experiencing a Mexican New Wave.

Just consider some of the tremendously talented artists and their recent films.  First to come to notice is Alejandro González Iñárritu, who made one of the better political thrillers of this year in BABEL, a film that already seems destined for Oscar consideration.  He also helmed the brilliant AMORES PERROS (2000) and made one of the truly memorable films of 2003 in the Sean Penn starring vehicle, 21 GRAMS.  No doubt, Iñárritu is truly indicative of the one of the finest artists to emerge from Mexico.

However there is also the great Alfonso Cuarón, who is also demonstrating himself to be a high pedigree of filmmaking talent.  His resume is certainly broader than Iñárritu’s; he has made everything from 1995’s re-imagining of the classic Charles Dickens novel, GREAT EXPECTATIONS, to the erotically charged melodrama Y tu mamá también, as well as one of the darker entries of the HARRY POTTER franchise in 2004’s THE PRISONER OF AZKABAN.  Now comes his dystopian sci-fi drama, CHILDREN OF MEN, which just may be his most ambitious, epic, and lavishly mounted film ever.  It’s also one of 2006’s best films.

Movies about nihilistic futures under totalitarian rule are nothing new to the movies, if not popular fiction on the whole (just about every one to grace the screen or the page seems to owe a considerable debt to the works of George Orwell).  Cuarón’s own attempt here at a futuristic morality play is only loosely based on the source material (very liberal changes were made to the 1992 novel written by P.D. James in terms of plot, characters, and political themes).  Yet, despite its unfaithfulness to the book,  Cuarón’s film is an unforgettable and transcending piece of science fiction as a work that subtly and delicately balances state-of-the-art visual effects, probing themes, and strong performances.  Many Oscar voters will – no doubt – be thinking of BABEL come this spring, but it’s CHILDREN OF MEN that reveals itself to be the best film of 2006 by a Mexican filmmaker.  It also one of the year’s most intelligent, technologically complex and dense, disturbing, and emotional movie experiences.  Very few genre films like this one have such a strong heartbeat.  Cuarón’s does through and through.

Like past landmark films about bleak, post-apocalyptic worlds and states (BLADE RUNNER comes instantly to mind), Cuarón’s militaristic London of 2027 is one of the great original and memorable places of the movies.  There are bleak futures, and then really bleak and amoral futures.  The world of CHILDREN OF MEN is awash in moral uncertainty and barbarism.  Global catastrophe have devastated the planet.  Through an aliment of unknown origin (thankfully, the script does not feel the need to waste time with elaborate exposition) women of the world have grown completely infertile.  No new babies are created.  Since 2009, scientists have arrived at no explanation behind the devastating problem.  With no light at the end of the tunnel, the people of the world begins to see the plight they are in.  All hope becomes lost.  After all, what is there to really aspire for when there will be future generations to carry on one’s legacy and name?

Cuarón does a brilliant job revealing little, discrete details here and there through casual dialogue and newspaper clippings that grace walls.  This is a patient film that does not feel the need for glossy, pre-credit title cards that explain everything.  Instead, Cuarón invites the viewer in to piece things together for themselves.  Many of the details are revealed casually through the film.  Because no one seems to give a damn about the future, lengthy world wars ensue, with some nations completely decimated by nuclear bombs  (Africa and Kazakhstan have been rendered uninhabitable by Russia nuclear attacks).  Global pollution levels have soared, leaving immense and irreparable damage to the environment.  Terrorism is a fact of everyday life in just about every major city.  Places like New York, Geneva, Moscow, and Tokyo have been ravaged by nuclear terrorist attacks. 

Because of the huge worldwide calamities, floods of immigrants from other nations have sought refuge in the world’s only “stable” place: The UK.  By 2027 Great Britain is the only government left, primarily due to its island geography and its totalitarian government, which interns the millions of refugees in Nazi-like camps.  The media only fuels this reality, constantly plastering slogans on giant view screens like “THE WORLD HAS COLLAPSED; ON BRITAIN SOLDIERS ON,” and “DO YOUR DUTY: REPORT ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS.”  The immigrants – called “fugees” - are society’s least desired elements and are ruled over with an iron fist.  London and its government feels their lands to be safe, but with the crippled and desperate citizens, they seem just as poorly off as the rest of the world.  Again – there’s no wonder hope is so lacking.  In 100 years, there will be no one left on earth.

The film opens with one ordinary citizen living under Big Brother,  Theo Faron (the always intense and empowered Clive Owen) who sees a TV report that the “youngest person on the planet” – aged 18 years, 4 months, 20 days, and 8 minutes – has been stabbed to death.  To Theo it does not matter.  Hopelessly mourning after the man’s death will solve nothing.  Seconds later he narrowly escapes a terrorist bombing allegedly from “The Fishes”, an underground group that tries to fight the inhuman treatment of immigrants. 

Theo himself was a former advocate, but has now turned to a life of relative normalcy – if you could call it that – working as a pencil-pushing bureaucrat at the Ministry of Energy.  Theo’s only recluse is with an old friend named Jasper (in a jolly and spirited performance by Michael Caine) who lives in the woods with his disabled wife and cultivates marijuana (which is legal) and sells it to whomever wants it.  After a visit with his old companion Theo sees himself thrown irrecoverably in between the fascist government and the rebels that hope to overthrow it.  He finds himself kidnapped by agents of  “The Fishes” and has a chance meeting with one of their higher ups, Julian (Julianne Moore).  She is a woman from his past (they were lovers, fellow advocates, and both had a child that was lost at an early age). 

She asks him for some forged passport papers in exchange for money.  The down on his luck loser agrees, but his outlook changes forever when he meets the mysterious Kee (Claire-Hope Ashitey) who is…pregnant.  Julian only wants the girl safely taken to an enigmatic group known as “The Human League.”  Others in her organization think otherwise, seeing the miracle baby as a tool for establishing rebellion rule.  Through a series of disastrous events the care of Kee is taken upon by Theo and he desperately attempts to get her to safety and avoid detection by the government (who also could exploit the baby) and the rebels, lead by Luke (in a chilling performance by Chiwetel Ejiofore).

CHILDREN OF MEN is endlessly provocative and thoughtful in the way the best sci-fi cautionary tales are