A Hard Habit to Break
In "The Devil Wears Prada", Meryl Streep armored herself in an icily glamorous veneer and struck terror into the hearts of subordinates with a deadly combination of haughty contempt and soft-spoken venom. Her turn as an Anna Wintour-ish magazine editor was funny, yet subtle, never succumbing to over-the-top theatrics that would have propelled the performance into caricature. As the formidable Sister Aloysius in John Patrick Shanley's new film version of his Broadway hit, "Doubt", Streep again assays the role of an unlikable character, this time with a terrifying earnestness that eschews subtlety for the ferocious passion of a woman for her beliefs.
Set in an urban Catholic school circa 1964, "Doubt" unfolds in a rapidly changing America that many aren't yet ready to embrace. The Kennedy assassination is still fresh in everyone's minds, and the civil rights movement has resulted in the enrollment of the first black student in the Italian-Irish parish school. The parish priest, a forward-thinking and open-minded (relative) newcomer, is destined to clash with the school's principal, an old-school, fire-breathing dragon of a nun. When a question of priestly impropriety with the black student arises, all hell breaks loose, as Sister Aloysius jumps at the opportunity to rid her world of a man whom she clearly considers unworthy of wearing the robes of the priesthood. Whether her certainty of the priest's guilt is a manifestation of her dislike for the man, or a show of genuine concern for the welfare of the young student, becomes a point of contention between Sister Aloysius and the younger, sweet-natured Sister James who, naively, started the ball rolling in the first place. As Sister Aloysius relentlessly presses on with her unofficial (and unsanctioned) witch hunt, the filmmakers play on the audience's doubts, not only about the nun's motivations, but whether or not the priest actually engaged in an improper relationship with the boy.
As already noted, Meryl Streep's Sister Aloysius is a force to be reckoned with. A black clad harpy who eats nails for breakfast and has acid for blood, she's a likely descendant of Vincent Price's witchfinder general in "The Conqueror Worm". Utterly humorless, Sister Aloysius inhabits an archaic world in which everything can be viewed as either black or white, right or wrong. There are no grey areas and, thus, no room for doubt. That the times are changing is not lost on Sister Aloysius and, with her stern, strident face and quick, huffy mannerisms, the frustration is evident, even as she tries to enforce her sense of normalcy and values---her draconian Catholicism--on an institution that she fears will soon find her obsolete. It is not just the boy's welfare that is at stake, nor that of the priest, nor even the Catholic Church---it is the future of Sister Aloysius, herself, that hinges on evicting the interloper and his near-blasphemous (in her mind) ideas of progress and forward movement (thus calling into question the Sister's own authority). But just when think you've had enough and are secretly hoping that the priest, Father Flynn, will throw this merciless, headstrong woman out of a window, the actress gives us something--a gesture, a look, a tone--to remind us that Sister Aloysius is not invulnerable, that she is a real person who, behind the corporeal severity, is afraid and all-too-human.
Meryl Streep has long been regarded as one of the world's premier film actresses. There's a reason for that, and it's on display right here in this film. She has always had the ability to totally inhabit the characters that she's portraying, but in "Doubt", she goes a step further, causing me to momentarily forget that I was watching Meryl Streep giving a performance. For the duration of the film, she actually was Sister Aloysius. She's such a good actress that it's almost impossible to imagine her leaving the set to drive one of her kids to soccer practice. Or going home to prepare dinner. She's uncannily, impossibly, almost inhumanly good, and her performance in this film reminded me, once again, of what a spectacular talent she is.
For all of five minutes, Streep is nearly matched in the acting department by Viola Davis, a little-heralded actress who excels (all-too briefly) as the mother of the alleged victim. The scene where she and Streep walk along a sidewalk, discussing the implications of what the Sister is suggesting, and the subsequent reaction of the child's mother, is shattering. It is completely moving, without ever seeming maudlin or manipulative, the way plays-to-movies sometimes are.
As Father Flynn, Philip Seymour Hoffman does a fine job of bringing to life a conflicted, ambitious priest who wishes only to connect with the larger community and make the Church more inclusive, less intimidating. Being parish priest, Father Flynn occupies a loftier position than Sister Aloysius (demonstrated when he casually takes over her desk during meetings), but to her, he clearly occupies a lower moral plain: he smokes, he laughs and jokes with the students, he uses sugar in his tea---it's not a great leap from there to child molesting in Sister Aloysius' mind. On the surface, Hoffman's Father Flynn is a sincere, genial character, but as with other Hoffman roles, there's something edgier (and possibly a little perverse) going on underneath; in "Doubt", the question of guilt is never proven, and yet the ambiguity of Hoffman's performance causes doubts to remain long after the movie is over.
As Sister James, the true moral center of the story, Amy Adams is (as usual) luminous, even without makeup, and brings a convincing emotional depth to her character. Initially suspecting some sort of impropriety between Father Flynn and his pupil, Sister James almost immediately comes to regret her decision to confide in Sister Aloysius. An immensely watchable actress, Adams seems to be branching out and testing her mettle in more serious pieces of work, after a string of frothy, feel-good films of varying quality.
In shifting his Broadway success from stage to screen, director Shanley does an admirable job of making a smooth transition; I never got the impression that I was watching a filmed play, and the (roughly) 105 minute running time flew by so quickly that I'm not sure I ever blinked. Sitting in an audience composed largely of senior citizens, I noticed that not one of them got up to go to the bathroom during the movie, so that alone, speaks volumes.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Consumerism Runs Amok: Death at Wal-Mart
While the news was awash, last week, with reports of the terrorist attacks in Mumbai, an equally disturbing atrocity was being perpetrated much closer to home: in the suburban, decidedly non-exotic, seemingly safe confines of a Long Island Wal-Mart store, to be precise. On the day following Thanksgiving, aka Black Friday among bargain-hunting shoppers and merchants alike, a herd of animalistic, frenzied, sorry excuses for human beings descended upon temporary Wal-Mart employee, Jdimytai Damour, who was trying to maintain some sense of order and calm in the early morning rush. These miscreants proceeded to stomp and trample the man to death within a matter of minutes, injuring even those who attempted to come to the aid of the dying employee. They then went on to shop, as if nothing was amiss, as if running over and trampling another human being was just another obstacle to overcome in the bloodthirsty quest for, of all things, Christmas bargains. Keep in mind that the people responsible for this are not terrorists, either of the homegrown or of the foreign variety. They are suburban dads, soccer moms, congregants of various churches and synagogues, members of local benevolent organizations that collect money for the poor and needy. They are parents who probably have a son or a daughter in school with your own kids, someone you have sat next to at a football game, gossiped in line with at the supermarket, had coffee with at a nearby diner, or attempted to outbid at a weekend garage sale. They wear the friendly faces of the people next door, but behind the masks, lie savage, thoughtless monsters, more devious and diabolical than anything out of a fifties sci-fi flick. Whoa, what the fuck are you talking about? My neighbors are pod people? Can that assessment possibly be right?
Because we know these people, how do we reconcile what we know with their inexcusable and horrifying actions? How do we make it make sense? Maybe if it were the actions of two or three, then we might, somehow, fathom the events that transpired in that Long Island Wal-Mart on that blackest of Black Friday mornings. But this was not a handful of people responsible for an inhumanly bleak tragedy; this was a crowd estimated to number somewhere around two thousand, and the herd mentality that day was a monstrous thing, indeed. Was there no one in that crowd capable of displaying the most basic acts of decency and human dignity, and helping that man? When did mankinds most basic instinct become bargain shopping?
This is a disgusting, seriously sick incident that I don't think bodes well for our future. It reflects the irrationality, the barely contained hysteria and rage lurking just below the surface whenever a feeling, thinking individual, in essence, gives up his soul, however temporarily, to become part of some larger entity, something sub-human that expands the most mundane and fragmented of annoyances into an intolerable thing that must be removed or destroyed. It reflects badly on all of us, as human beings, because it's something that could as easily have happened in Florida, or a dozen other places throughout the United States alone. And just because there are other cities or states in this country where I don't believe that an incident like this could have happened, the citizens of those places have proven to be just as capable, with their violent pasts and herd mentality, of acting with equal heartlessness and self-serving savagery that have resulted in lynch mobs, soccer-game riots, legalized discrimination, and the denials of equal rights to those deemed to be, somehow, different. There's actually a name for this in science fiction: it's called the Hive Mentality, except in sci-fi, the members of the group are specifically committed to performing in every way to benefit the Hive. In real life, it's not quite like that, is it? I mean, the group behaves as one raging, out-of-control, perfectly insane entity, but its members, for the most part, aren't acting out of anything but self-interest. But, no matter what the extent of the damage is, there will always be excuses and explanations exonerating the group itself. Fingers will be pointed at a few disturbed, overly excited, highly agitated, deeply remorseful--take your pick--individuals; charges may be brought against them--or not. There could be community service, there's even the extremely remote chance of a jail sentence, which will, undoubtedly, be overturned through the efforts of overpaid, overzealous defense attorneys arguing (correctly) that one or two people can't be singled out for punishment when there was clearly an entire group responsible for the death at Wal-Mart. This is a case that I don't believe can ever be fully prosecuted. To be sure, everyone who stepped on that man in Wal-Mart should be tried for second-degree murder, but we know that that's not going to happen.
Which leaves me to wonder. What happened when the group ceased to function as one, when the shoppers retired to their respective and respectable suburban homes, their suburban lives, when they picked up their collective children from their tidy, suburban schools? Was there any guilt or remorse? Did any of them, even for an instant, ponder turning themselves in to the Nassau County Police Department? When these people were separated from their unfeeling, uncaring group, did their sense of humanity return? When their children unwrap their gifts this holiday season, I wonder if these parents will reflect on the true price of this year's happiness. As they watch their shiny-eyed offspring joyously admiring their new acquisitions, will it even occur to them that Josh's X-Box or Amanda's I-Phone cost Jdimytai Damour his life? Is this symptomatic of the moral code that we are passing on to our children, or is it something more complex, something indefineable that happens when something takes on a life of its own, governed by the overriding two words that define its very existence and propel every action performed by all its members: I WANT! Seemingly benign two words that have given rise to every evil, calculated and not, throughout history: I WANT!
Make no mistake about it, Jdimytai Damour was sacrificed on the altar of the reigning gods of American culture: greed and selfishness. Almost certainly, it was not a pre-determined act of violence and yet it seems almost comparable to the blood sacrifices early heathens used to make to their god, Baal, and early Christians made to satiate their own bloodthirsty god. This season makes it all the more ironic, but I usually like to reserve irony for humorous references, and this is anything but that. I have many questions, but very few answers as to how and why this happened. I only know that this man's death diminishes us, both as Americans, and as human beings, and that each and everyone responsible should come forward and confess their actions to the authorities. Maybe by acknowledging their wrongdoing, they can publicly atone for their actions by displaying that they do, indeed, have some remorse, and, thus, some shred of humanity that, by all accounts, separates us from the animals. That would certainly offer some hope to all of us, especially during a time of terrorism and widespread narcissism, and during a season that, for many, seems increasingly hopeless.
Because we know these people, how do we reconcile what we know with their inexcusable and horrifying actions? How do we make it make sense? Maybe if it were the actions of two or three, then we might, somehow, fathom the events that transpired in that Long Island Wal-Mart on that blackest of Black Friday mornings. But this was not a handful of people responsible for an inhumanly bleak tragedy; this was a crowd estimated to number somewhere around two thousand, and the herd mentality that day was a monstrous thing, indeed. Was there no one in that crowd capable of displaying the most basic acts of decency and human dignity, and helping that man? When did mankinds most basic instinct become bargain shopping?
This is a disgusting, seriously sick incident that I don't think bodes well for our future. It reflects the irrationality, the barely contained hysteria and rage lurking just below the surface whenever a feeling, thinking individual, in essence, gives up his soul, however temporarily, to become part of some larger entity, something sub-human that expands the most mundane and fragmented of annoyances into an intolerable thing that must be removed or destroyed. It reflects badly on all of us, as human beings, because it's something that could as easily have happened in Florida, or a dozen other places throughout the United States alone. And just because there are other cities or states in this country where I don't believe that an incident like this could have happened, the citizens of those places have proven to be just as capable, with their violent pasts and herd mentality, of acting with equal heartlessness and self-serving savagery that have resulted in lynch mobs, soccer-game riots, legalized discrimination, and the denials of equal rights to those deemed to be, somehow, different. There's actually a name for this in science fiction: it's called the Hive Mentality, except in sci-fi, the members of the group are specifically committed to performing in every way to benefit the Hive. In real life, it's not quite like that, is it? I mean, the group behaves as one raging, out-of-control, perfectly insane entity, but its members, for the most part, aren't acting out of anything but self-interest. But, no matter what the extent of the damage is, there will always be excuses and explanations exonerating the group itself. Fingers will be pointed at a few disturbed, overly excited, highly agitated, deeply remorseful--take your pick--individuals; charges may be brought against them--or not. There could be community service, there's even the extremely remote chance of a jail sentence, which will, undoubtedly, be overturned through the efforts of overpaid, overzealous defense attorneys arguing (correctly) that one or two people can't be singled out for punishment when there was clearly an entire group responsible for the death at Wal-Mart. This is a case that I don't believe can ever be fully prosecuted. To be sure, everyone who stepped on that man in Wal-Mart should be tried for second-degree murder, but we know that that's not going to happen.
Which leaves me to wonder. What happened when the group ceased to function as one, when the shoppers retired to their respective and respectable suburban homes, their suburban lives, when they picked up their collective children from their tidy, suburban schools? Was there any guilt or remorse? Did any of them, even for an instant, ponder turning themselves in to the Nassau County Police Department? When these people were separated from their unfeeling, uncaring group, did their sense of humanity return? When their children unwrap their gifts this holiday season, I wonder if these parents will reflect on the true price of this year's happiness. As they watch their shiny-eyed offspring joyously admiring their new acquisitions, will it even occur to them that Josh's X-Box or Amanda's I-Phone cost Jdimytai Damour his life? Is this symptomatic of the moral code that we are passing on to our children, or is it something more complex, something indefineable that happens when something takes on a life of its own, governed by the overriding two words that define its very existence and propel every action performed by all its members: I WANT! Seemingly benign two words that have given rise to every evil, calculated and not, throughout history: I WANT!
Make no mistake about it, Jdimytai Damour was sacrificed on the altar of the reigning gods of American culture: greed and selfishness. Almost certainly, it was not a pre-determined act of violence and yet it seems almost comparable to the blood sacrifices early heathens used to make to their god, Baal, and early Christians made to satiate their own bloodthirsty god. This season makes it all the more ironic, but I usually like to reserve irony for humorous references, and this is anything but that. I have many questions, but very few answers as to how and why this happened. I only know that this man's death diminishes us, both as Americans, and as human beings, and that each and everyone responsible should come forward and confess their actions to the authorities. Maybe by acknowledging their wrongdoing, they can publicly atone for their actions by displaying that they do, indeed, have some remorse, and, thus, some shred of humanity that, by all accounts, separates us from the animals. That would certainly offer some hope to all of us, especially during a time of terrorism and widespread narcissism, and during a season that, for many, seems increasingly hopeless.
My Amazon DVD Review: "Flesh for Frankenstein", November 26, 2008
Little Joe and the Frankenstein Saga
Moving at a sometimes glacial pace, Paul Morrisey's 1973 trash-art classic, "Flesh for Frankenstein" is, nevertheless, a beautifully filmed and elegantly turned out psychodrama that is in equal parts, horror film and satire. In this restored version (originally for inclusion in the esteemed Criterion Collection), the movie is so gorgeous to look at that even the excessive gore has an artistic sheen; it's as if a Renaissance painter tackled the Frankenstein legend via a charnel house.
Warhol protege' Paul Morrisey made his first (sort of) big-budget feature directing this film, and, truth be told, he manages to outshine his mentor, at least in terms of moviemaking. Filmed on locations in Europe, "Flesh for Frankenstein" evokes other Italian films of the period, while, none-too-faithfully, referencing Mary Shelley's source novel. As stated, the movie is extremely gory (some might say "exquisitely", because of the aesthetic quality of the scenes), although it is never sufficiently frightening to qualify as genuinely scary.
Dependable Euro-standby, Udo Kier (who is still going strong in movies almost forty years later), delivers a campy, over-the-top performance as Baron Frankenstein, a creepy, castle-dwelling mad doctor who lives with his sexually frustrated wife/sister (Monique van Vooren) and their two strange, pre-teen offspring. While Kier is busy stitching together body parts with henchman Arno Juering, and plotting to rule the world, the wife/sister is shacking up with Warhol superstar, Joe Dallesandro, cast as the local handyman/stud whose inexplicable New York accent is jarringly out of tune with the European accents of the other actors. This is, somehow, not terribly detrimental to the film as it adds yet another endearingly loony level of camp to this already insane sideshow. Following some gruesome starts and stops, the mad doctor comes up with a female creature (played by the ravishing Dalila di Lazzaro), whom he immediately proceeds to sexually fetishize in scenes that must be viewed to be believed. Meanwhile, studly Joe and his chaste (and probably gay) sidekick (played by the equally ravishing Srdjan Zelenovic) visit a local brothel where the horrified younger man opts to wait outside while Joe does the deed with a pair of bosomy damsels. Unfortunately, the young man runs afoul of the Baron and his assistant, losing his head, before Joe finally hitches up his studly breeches and realizes that a murderer is afoot. It's not long before the young friend is transformed into the male monster, but the mad doctor's plans go awry when he realizes that his male creation isn't the least bit interested in climbing aboard his female counterpart, and thus thwarting Frankenstein's plans to create a superior race from the two.
In addition to the graphic gore, there's a lot of nudity (mostly female) and simulated sex, and the ending is truly a spectacular grand guignol with internal organs and body parts aplenty strewn across the screen. Not for the squeamish or faint-hearted, the movie has a fair amount of humor, which makes up for the lack of suspense and the occasionally stumbling narrative.
Moving at a sometimes glacial pace, Paul Morrisey's 1973 trash-art classic, "Flesh for Frankenstein" is, nevertheless, a beautifully filmed and elegantly turned out psychodrama that is in equal parts, horror film and satire. In this restored version (originally for inclusion in the esteemed Criterion Collection), the movie is so gorgeous to look at that even the excessive gore has an artistic sheen; it's as if a Renaissance painter tackled the Frankenstein legend via a charnel house.
Warhol protege' Paul Morrisey made his first (sort of) big-budget feature directing this film, and, truth be told, he manages to outshine his mentor, at least in terms of moviemaking. Filmed on locations in Europe, "Flesh for Frankenstein" evokes other Italian films of the period, while, none-too-faithfully, referencing Mary Shelley's source novel. As stated, the movie is extremely gory (some might say "exquisitely", because of the aesthetic quality of the scenes), although it is never sufficiently frightening to qualify as genuinely scary.
Dependable Euro-standby, Udo Kier (who is still going strong in movies almost forty years later), delivers a campy, over-the-top performance as Baron Frankenstein, a creepy, castle-dwelling mad doctor who lives with his sexually frustrated wife/sister (Monique van Vooren) and their two strange, pre-teen offspring. While Kier is busy stitching together body parts with henchman Arno Juering, and plotting to rule the world, the wife/sister is shacking up with Warhol superstar, Joe Dallesandro, cast as the local handyman/stud whose inexplicable New York accent is jarringly out of tune with the European accents of the other actors. This is, somehow, not terribly detrimental to the film as it adds yet another endearingly loony level of camp to this already insane sideshow. Following some gruesome starts and stops, the mad doctor comes up with a female creature (played by the ravishing Dalila di Lazzaro), whom he immediately proceeds to sexually fetishize in scenes that must be viewed to be believed. Meanwhile, studly Joe and his chaste (and probably gay) sidekick (played by the equally ravishing Srdjan Zelenovic) visit a local brothel where the horrified younger man opts to wait outside while Joe does the deed with a pair of bosomy damsels. Unfortunately, the young man runs afoul of the Baron and his assistant, losing his head, before Joe finally hitches up his studly breeches and realizes that a murderer is afoot. It's not long before the young friend is transformed into the male monster, but the mad doctor's plans go awry when he realizes that his male creation isn't the least bit interested in climbing aboard his female counterpart, and thus thwarting Frankenstein's plans to create a superior race from the two.
In addition to the graphic gore, there's a lot of nudity (mostly female) and simulated sex, and the ending is truly a spectacular grand guignol with internal organs and body parts aplenty strewn across the screen. Not for the squeamish or faint-hearted, the movie has a fair amount of humor, which makes up for the lack of suspense and the occasionally stumbling narrative.
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