The Hound Of Ulster

 

Some THOUGHTS and crazy theories.  Watch for spoilers.

THIS “thriller” was a useful exercise primarily because it reminded me of several important facts one should always keep in mind when creating this sort of cinematic potboiler.

Rule #1: When adapting a book, be careful to remove unnecessary, unimportant, incidental, and “hard to explain either quickly or clearly” information from the story, and make a semi-serious effort to keep all the necessary plot points in the script.  It makes everthing a bit easier to follow for the audience.  (Oh, and if you’ve decided not to follow Rule #1, don’t go with the 24ish editing style.  That doesn’t lend itself to increased storytelling clarity.)

Rule #2, which might be seen as a corollary to Rule #1: An action thriller only requires a very basic level of plausibility; one which should not be too difficult to achieve.  If one can manage to keep the plot holes down to the Mack Truck size, it’s a plus.  Airbus size is just a bit hard to swallow.  Apparently, someone forgot to tell George Nolfi this little factoid.  (It is probably important to remember that we’re talking about the writer of Timeline, Ocean’s Twelve and the upcoming Hawaii Five-O here.  Perhaps he’s not being hired for “plausibility purposes.”)

Rule #3, which is almost certainly just a corollary to Rule #2 (and therefore, depending on your view, a corollary to Rule #1): If you make a movie about the Secret Service, it’s a good idea to have them be moderately competent and mostly ethical.  The unsatisfying alternative is to have one of them be a horrible traitor while the rest are simply buffoons.  Aside from the taste this leaves in the viewer’s mouth, it’s just not very believable.

Rule #4:  In the Line of Fire is a really well-made, gripping film about the Secret Service and Presidential assasination attempts.  It is a tight, polished, mostly plausible story highlighted by excellent performances, high production values, and featuring one of the best cinema villains ever.  Do not make a movie that will be compared to it unless you’re ready to “bring your A game.”  This “C+ game” stuff isn’t really going to cut it.
 

This is frightfully tardy, but if I don’t start the viewing long again, I’m going to fall hopelessly behind; make that “more hopelessly.”  And then I’ll forget everything.  Writing down my thoughts is simply a crutch for those of us (me) who are already afraid that their heads are so filled with trivial details that we (I) won’t be able to keep track of the things I’d actually like to remember.

Not sure this film fits into that “things I’d like to remember” category, but one must start somewhere, musn’t one?

I recently (in Galapagos land tortoise terms) had the opportunity to view this Nordic FILM, (sometimes lovingly referred to as Den Brysomme mannen), and I am pleased to report that it did indeed live up to its name.

It was a bothersome film.

Although blessed with so many of the strengths usually displayed by foreign independent features - (wonderful and wonderfully restrained acting, superb visuals and camera work, high yet not overdone production values) - the film suffered badly from “M. Night Syndrome”: “the weakness of trying to say too much, and doing it far too quickly.”  Unfortunately, it also suffered from “The Fellini Condition”: “the state or condition of being unwilling to compromise your artistic vision or principles for the sake of a basic level of storytelling clarity and audience understanding.”

Despite my occasional sympathies for folks with Problem #1, I have never been able to work up an ounce of tolerance for folks with Problem #2.  Sadly, The Bothersome Man falls firmly into both camps.  And while some might argue that a certain amount of ambiguity and confusion was an essential part of the film’s message, I remain unconvinced that leaving folks “utterly lost” was what the filmmakers had in mind.  (A significant dose of unnecessarily explicit sex - actually, is there any other kind? - and bewilderingly random, explicit violence also served to detract from the film’s overall enjoyableness.)

Yet despite these fairly harsh criticisms, the film succeeded in being both entertaining and thought-provoking.  I suspect it would make for an excellent “discussion” piece, given the difficult-to-interpret-but-clearly-intended symbolism throughout.  It’s just a shame that the writers couldn’t find a way to increase these worthwhile aspects of the film while decreasing the overall feeling of confusion.

(Oh, and don’t fall for the “Purgatory” interpretation.  I don’t see how it can possibly hold together.)
 

Let me put your mind at rest on one point: this is not the Tony Scott-helmed BMW short, for which everyone should be grateful. It will not cause you to have a seizure, which is a good thing. And it does not feature Clive Owen, though that’s probably not quite such a good thing. Still, you can avoid the whole “James Brown interacting with the Devil” bit. And there’s no Marilyn Manson. (In related news, you can’t get The Hire films for free any more. I wonder if my DVD is worth anything. It’s doubtful…)

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“Time. Time. What is time? Swiss manufacture it. French hoard it. Italians squander it. Americans say it is money. Hindus say it does not exist. Do you know what I say? I say time is a crook.”

Suppose you discovered a long-lost film, something from the mid 50’s, let’s say - a work starring Humphrey Bogart and Peter Lorre, built around material based on a book by James Helvick (aka Claud Cockburn), with a screenplay co-written by Truman Capote and John Huston, and directed by the famous Huston himself. You’d expect something hard-boiled, wouldn’t you? A somewhat older, slighter seedier, and maybe even a bit more cynical version of their previous collaborations, The Maltese Falcon, Key Largo, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, and maybe even The African Queen?

When I ran across Beat The Devil in my Netflix recommendations list several months ago, that’s exactly what I thought I had found – right after marveling at the fact that Netflix seemed to have finally gotten one right. (I’ve had a love/hate relationship with my recommendations from the online service: they give me a list of films that I should love, and I hate them.) But when I actually watched the film on Sunday night, I discovered for the umpteenth time that it is never wise to judge a cinematic book simply by its cover.

In many ways, I was disappointed. Bogart seems tired; his trademark abrasiveness and gruff charm watered down; his physicality, usually such a dramatic presence in his films, alternately flat and absurdly self-parodying. Huston, too, seemed to be struggling to capture a tone and style that constantly eluded him. Frequent close-ups seemed designed to conceal gaps in the film’s continuity, and the overall pacing never quite “gelled” into a polished product.

Nor does the writing team of Huston and Capote escape criticism. The character of Mrs. Gwendolen Chelm, played with an occasional competence by Jennifer Jones, attempts (unsuccessfully) to walk the line between a charming naiveté and a calloused, calculating indifference to the truth that would have made even Huck Finn blush with shame. The result is a character that comes across as appalling only during those rare moments when she is not incredibly irritating, and I began to dread her presence on screen. (The same could be said of Gina Lollobrigida, who plays the character of Bogart’s empty-headed wife with an exasperating sincerity.)

The film’s handful of male characters, though undeniably given a good deal more material than their female counterparts, still suffer greatly from being under-drawn stereotypes. With Bogart, of course, stereotyping is a given. How could he ever really be asked to play anyone other than Rick? (And besides, he does it so well). Lorre, however, is essentially wasted, and the remaining villains/heroes never amount to a hill of beans in terms of plausibility, relatability or even good, old-fashioned likeability.

But as the film drew to a close, I found myself wondering how many of these disappointments were actually the result of my unrealized expectations. For the film is not only profoundly unlike The Maltese Falcon, Sierra Madre or Key Largo, it never intended to be like them; an essential in understanding its tone and tempo. Rather than a pale shadow of their greatness, it should be seen as a swift, smart, self-deprecating parody of those films – created by the very artists responsible for the other successes. Could all these flaws actually be intentional decisions on the part of Huston and Co.?

Unfortunately, I think not. Does an understanding of Beat The Devil as parody help to explain a great many flaws? Definitely. Does it make the film a good film? No. Even with this new-found appreciation for the film’s intentions, the pacing issues are glaring – do we really need to spend the first third of the film dealing languidly with the “exotic locale story setup,” and the last third of the film dealing languidly with the ship’s captain and purser? - and the acting is sporadic no matter how one looks at it. (And there are still the issues of continuity for those obsessive/compulsives amongst us). But it does definitely help explain Bogart’s flatness, Lorre’s almost apologetically small role, and even a great deal of Mrs. Chelm’s and Mrs. Dannreuther’s irritating irrationalities.

And let’s not forget the most profound difference of all: the film’s ending. In the non-parody view, the finale comes off as a naive, inexplicable, yet somehow satisfying return to normalcy in the midst of a sea of chaos. But if Huston and his cohorts are trying to have a bit of fun at the expense of their former selves, the final scene changes from a Capra-esque burst of sunshine to the “icing on the cake:” a crowning absurdity in an increasingly illogical film. Is the ending of Beat The Devil meant to be seen as a saccharine, untenable conclusion; a stark contrast with the sober “reality” of its sibling films?

I’m not sure that’s a change for the better.

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Apparently, I am more anomalistic in my opinions than I would have thought. Take Ebert’s REVIEW, for example:

Much of the humor is generated by the two women. Jones plays a busybody, one of those women who accidentally blurts out exactly what she intends to say. Lollobrigida wears a series of similarly low-cut, cinched-waist evening dresses at all times of the day. And Morley’s gang turns up inappropriately dressed for the hot weather, sweating and squirming, all except for the imperturbable Lorre, who has died his hair platinum and sucks continuously on a cigarette in a holder that he holds like a flute.

…

The movie has above all effortless charm. Once we catch on that nothing much is going to happen, we can relax and share the amusement of the actors, who are essentially being asked to share their playfulness. There is a scene on a veranda overlooking the sea, where Bogart and Jones play out their first flirtation, and by the end of their dialogue you can see they’re all but cracking up; Bogart grins during the dissolve. The whole movie feels that way. Now that movies have become fearsome engines designed to hammer us with entertainment, it is nice to recall those that simply wanted to be witty company.

Or THIS piece from MetroActive’s Richard von Busack:

Beat the Devil suggests a remake of Huston’s own The Maltese Falcon written by Joe Orton and Oscar Wilde. Supposedly, Bogart loathed the picture. Possibly this is because he sunk his money in it, and it, in turn, sank. (“Only phonies like it,” Bogart used to grouse.) Too bad Bogart was blind to its merits; he displays ascot-wearing, rotting handsomeness and keen, raspy wit. It’s a warm but acrid sunset performance, and it inspired a well-deserved cult. If Beat the Devil doesn’t make a lot of logical sense, forgive it: as one character here sighs, “Charm and dependability so seldom go in the same package.”

I’m at a bit of a loss. But then, I’m used to that. Happens with greater and greater regularity, especially when it comes to these “cult classics.” The history, at least, is interesting. Too bad the film didn’t end up the same way.

I’ve decided to start using the blog as a repository of my reactions to the films I see. Partially, this is because I have the unshakable (and absurd) hope that my thoughts on anything might interest someone other than myself. And partially it is because my Word document that houses the opinions at the moment is becoming much too long.

So, I’ll start off with an “easy” one: Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto. Only it’s not really much of a review. More of a “free-form exercise in expressing one’s opinion as vaguely as possible.” I think I succeeded quite nicely on that front, really. One quick note: the whole thing is as much a response to the sort of objection talked about in HERE as it is a review. My sincere apologies.

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Don’t be fooled: Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto is neither mindlessly violent nor ideologically ham-fisted, despite its critics’ valiant attempts to portray it as nothing more than a warped, disturbed, and (gasp) historically inaccurate extension of its creator’s personal demons.

Is it violent? Most assuredly and emphatically so. Human sacrifices have a tendency to drift towards the brutally savage side of the violencemeter. And Gibson, as always, goes for the unflinchingly realistic approach in all things. Nor is blunt-force weaponry at work a pretty sight, and that turns up with great regularity, as well. It would not be unfair to say “relentlessly so.”

But is it violent to the point of excess? Quite possibly. Gibson as long flirted with that boundary, both in films of his own making, and those where he participation was limited to that of “on-screen talent.” There are certainly moments in this film where the violence seems to have moved out of the realm of the necessary, passed through that of the “a bit much,” and headed straight on into full-blown cartoonish territory. (The demise of the film’s most despicable antagonist is a particularly striking example of this phenomenon, as are most of the images surrounding the sacrifices themselves.)

But is the violence without purpose? Definitely not. In fact, the context of the film demands a certain level of brutality. One might question the lengths to which Gibson is willing to go in his efforts to portray the crippling effects of decadence and human insensitivity to morality. But it is also unquestionably effective. And if Gibson’s previous films have proven anything to their audiences, it is that he is a result-driven filmmaker.

Are the film’s stories and themes worthy of justifying this level of brutality? That is a difficult judgment, and one that might only be possible to make on an individual basis. Much like the overwhelming violence present in war films such as Saving Private Ryan or Black Hawk Down, the method is a large part of the message. To ask (or in the case of many critics, to demand) that Gibson make this film without its violence makes no sense.

Yet, there is much more to the film than the violence. And those moments are far more effective because of their brutal context, as Gibson surely intended them to be. The resilience and stubborn perseverance of Jaguar Paw in the face of bloodily insurmountable obstacles is truly inspiring, as is the undeniably pro-family message that Gibson has concealed in the midst of all his gore and violence. Even the film’s primary villain seems driven by a sort of natural virtue, occasionally acting with a nobleness and grandeur at least nominally inconsistent with his other actions - choosing the good seemingly in spite of himself.

Gibson has created a film where the audience is presented with a culture and a society utterly foreign to its own - except for the most basic (and most important) feature: their humanity. The result is a story where we care deeply about the protagonists, no matter where or when they existed. Despite the complete lack of continuity between the two groups - the viewers on one side, and the ancient Mayans on the other - it works. And that points to a real ability on Gibson’s part to strip away all the inessentials on his way to the real essence of the matter.

Perhaps the most compelling defense of the film’s brutal depiction of semi-civilizations is its utterly convincing immersion on a time and culture completely foreign to the vast majority of Western audiences. Such an immersion may well have been impossible without the violence Gibson uses to tell the story - a story that begins dramatically and instantaneously, without a hint of explanation or “helpfully modernizing” narration. At times, the viewer must wonder whether or not Gibson somehow managed to slip a camera crew into 16^th Century Central America, so engrossing, so believable and so unusual are the events playing out on the screen.

In keeping with this effort for absolute realism, Gibson shot the film in Mayan dialect, using subtitles sparingly. To be honest, he uses language sparingly, choosing to tell the story largely through the unusually expressive faces of his actors - principles and secondary characters alike. The unHollywoodized appearances of nearly all the actors used in the project is yet another “break the mold” moment for Gibson. No pristinely beautiful savages here; these actors are as worn and unique as the people they are meant to portray.

The cinematography is spectacular. Dean Semler, wisely recognizing the extraordinary beauty and effectiveness of the natural surroundings, stayed out of the way. The camera moves effortlessly through the jungle, weaving in and out amongst trees, over waterfalls, and (lest we forget the film’s crowing achievement) the chase scene that brings the film to its finale: a good 45 minutes, at least; yet relentlessly gripping, every moment of it.

The result is a film that (like its director) never does anything half-way. It is brutally violent, brilliantly real, exhaustively immersive, and ultimately, deeply satisfying. Not without its missteps - the film’s humor tends to strike fairly hollow, and some of the action sequences provide moments of merriment that seem to have been unintended - it nevertheless achieves a peak rarely experienced in cinema. It is, as Pope John Paul II was so famously reported to have said of Gibson’s Passion, as it was. The audience is transported to a time and place never before experienced in the West, and it stays there until the film concludes. Such an achievement cannot be diminished, no matter how hard the critics may try.

Do all these things add up to a good film? Difficult to say. But it might add up to a great one. And it is most certainly unique. Is that enough? In this case, I’m tempted to say “Yes.”

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HERE are some thoughts from Orson Scott Card. His is a more traditionally constructed review, so there are some story-centric spoilers. If you really dislike having a film spoiled, don’t read it. (But it has the undeniable advantage of saying a lot of what I was trying to say, only significantly better. Can’t ignore that now, can we? Even if I’d like to…)

Not for one moment did I wish I had lived in those times and in that place. But Gibson’s (and writer Farhad Safinia’s) achievement was to make me see the common humanity among these cultural strangers — even among those who capture the slaves for sacrifice.

I can’t recommend it for everyone. It’s no Pride and Prejudice. It’s not your average date movie. But I’m glad I saw it. I admire Gibson and all the rest who worked together to create it. This was a brave and difficult film to make. It will make back its investment — barely. But that’s enough, with a film like this. Congratulations to Buena Vista (Disney) for having the guts to distribute it, but most of all to Mel Gibson’s Icon Entertainment International for having the vision to make it.

And HERE is something from Sonny Bunch that appeared in The Weekly Standard a couple of months ago. Again, it says what I was trying to say, only significantly better. It, too, has significant spoilerage.

Almost any historical drama will contain such problems. That being said, it is specious for professional historians and grievance groups alike to argue that Apocalypto is a wanton desecration of the memories of the Mayan people. While it may be an inconvenient fact that the Mayans were skilled at the art of human cruelty, it is, nevertheless, a fact.

Lastly, since I’ve been frequenting Peter Chattaway’s FILMCHAT of late, HERE are his thoughts on the film.  Looking over that review (and the multiple reviews linked to his), I discover myself on the opposite side of the “violence issue” than I’m accustomed to finding myself.  I wonder if I am growing desensitized.