Alexander Calder at SAM

Holy shit! the Alexander Calder show at Seattle Art Museum is amazing!

I was just making a quick stop by the museum to check out some photos, and thought, as long as I was in the building, might as well take a glance upstairs — wasn't until two and a half hours later that I managed to pry myself away from the fourth floor. If you haven't seen the show yet, go sooner rather than later because you'll want to come back again, and again, and again.

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Such was my initial, breathless reaction. (Really. I was giddily short of breath looking at the work.) Admittedly, it was colored by my very scant prior experience with Calder, but, having had more time to think about it, and a chance to go back, I maintain that this is a show to see.

First of all, whoever made the decision to paint the front room that sort of slate, gray-blue color deserves some high praise. Boy does that first mobile cut an impressive figure when you catch it at the right angle. That, plus the massive, mustard yellow "ALEXANDER CALDER" makes for quite the monumental introduction . . . so much so that the transition to the white cube, inner rooms is slightly jarring. But the jolt is soon forgotten as you become absorbed in Calder's whimsy. (Unless you totally can't get into Calder for some reason. You crazy person.) Moving ante-chronologically through the artist's career, there was scarcely a moment when I was not more astounded than the last. I wholly disagree with the museum's assertion regarding the larger fabrications that "his early work appears almost rudimentary in comparison." The delicacy of some of those standing mobiles, especially the small ones, is just exquisite — Grasshopper (ca. 1952), Black, White, Yellow and Brass on Red (1959), and Yellow Stalk with Stone (1953) stand out — as is the way he's able to pare down forms to almost nothing, yet still retain so much — Jonah and the Whale (ca. 1940), and do not miss (!) the little wire cow Vache (1930).

It may go without saying that SAM has a bit of a (deserved) reputation for mounting second rate shows. (Michelangelo certainly qualifies.) Alexander Calder: A Balancing Act, however, (despite its lame title) is top notch. The south wall, at times reserved for 'stuff we wish we could have had but didn't get so we put these pictures up instead', this time features some decent photographs of Calder at work, as well as a beautiful film by Herbert Matter. Those gray lines on the floor, typically just annoying barriers to those of us who care enough about a work to look closely, here serve to emphasize the scale of Calder's mobiles, making them appear even more grand. The show isn't packed with work, but it's not sparse-for-lack-of-resources either. Each piece has room to breathe, and the space is satisfyingly occupied. Plus, in the back room you can watch a projected performance of Cirque Calder!

All right, all right, it's not all roses. The show has been criticized, perhaps rightly, for lacking a point, but that's actually something I appreciated. Why do I want the museum telling me what to think? Now if your experience with a particular artist happens to be excessive, I could see how this might be unsatisfying, but for those who are new to the work, this neutral, retrospective type presentation is the best sort of introduction possible. It's true, the wall labels aren't especially illuminating, but those can suck at any venue. (It's also possible I should get out more.) And moving through the gallery there is at least one spot where trying to stay outside one of those floor circles basically forces you into a wall. Lame. All in all though, I stand by this show, and Alexander Calder. I don't care what Jen Graves says. (She is right about the Bougainvillier (1947) pedestal though. WAY too big.)

The Dot and the Line

Oscar winner 1965, directed by Chuck Jones, and based on the book by Norton Juster.

That Weird Gallery Shine

Have you ever been to one of those contemporary galleries in the nice part of town? You know, the ones right next to the gallery with the art you actually wanted to see? (Or maybe you didn't want to see it; really, someone just dragged you there. Either way.) You wander in against your better judgment, neck craning warily as you pass that horrible, kitschy sculpture tending the door. By now you're past the point of no return, the gallery attendant having spotted you, smiling invitingly. It's far too late to mime, 'Oh snap, I didn't mean to walk into this art gallery, I was looking for that new J. Crew that just opened up.' Nope, you're committed. So you do your duty, don an inquisitive look, and step inside.

There are myriad endings to this story, many of them involving seas of vibrantly colored flowers and/or some form of modern day impressionism, but the thing that struck me last week was shine. While visiting the oddly posh little town of Ketchum, Idaho, and playing out the scenario I've just described, I found myself surrounded by some very vaguely Rauschenbergian, maybe slightly Sean Scullyish, but not, assemblage sort of paintings by a man called Jeff Fontaine. The works were stale and golden-hued; pleasant, unexciting conglomerations of shapes and colors; and very, very shiny. As though they'd all been dipped in vats of resin. This coating was of no discernible benefit to the paintings — they'd have been bad with or without it — and it occurred to me that I'd seen the same sort of shine before, in all manner of similarly positioned art spaces. But if it didn't improve the work, then why?

Time was, of course, all paintings were covered in a layer of lacquer. This layer protected the paint underneath and could be removed and reapplied when it yellowed or was otherwise sullied, but it's well over a century now since that went out of vogue. If Fontaine were truly going for "the innate beauty created as man made objects break down and naturally age," as it says in his artist statement, you'd think he would want to highlight different textures and surfaces, in addition to patterns and colors. Yet every piece featured the same glossy shine.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not opposed to glossy as a rule. Heck, Henry Schoebel has his paintings coated at an auto body shop before they go to the gallery, and many of those painters of bygone centuries relied on their lacquer to provide an essential depth or luminosity. But Schoebel's work is about being absurd; and while lacquer may have been standard procedure in the nineteenth century — the first half — Fontaine and others like him don't have that to fall back on. Far from adding depth, this new shine tends to resemble the candy glaze you see on pastries more than anything else. Those you at least get to taste. This shine is merely an attractive wrapper, a pretty package over an otherwise rather dull product. But maybe that's just it. That glassy outer layer is the candy coating, playing on our experiences with foods and jewels and plastics. Just as Prometheus enticed Zeus with delicious, glistening fat, and toy makers grab kids with bright colors, these galleries trap rich people with that distinctly over-perfect finish. Consciously or unconsciously they attract artists with a similar sensibility, artists who have become enamored with their own product, who still believe themselves to be innovating but are in fact only producing; cogs on the wheel of consumerism that values, above all else, shininess.

Big Fan

Big Fan is not The Wrestler. (If you haven't seen The Wrestler yet, go rent it right now.) That's an odd way to start, perhaps, but worth noting. Both films, of course, were written by Robert Siegel, and Big Fan marks his directorial debut. But if you walk into this picture expecting the same emotional wallop of last year's tour de force, you will be disappointed.

That said, Big Fan is worth seeing. Its story follows Paul Aufiero, a parking garage attendant, who lives with his mother, and breathes only for the New York Football Giants. It's sad to watch him go about his day with such a singular but inconsequential obsession. And if his impotence weren't enough, we also see him endure pestering from concerned family members who, while clearly living the American dreams of some, lead perceptibly shallow lives themselves and offer nothing of interest to an inveterate Paul.

Things take a surly turn when Paul and his best friend spot their favorite Giants player — the cannily named Quantrell Bishop — and follow him to a night club where a misunderstanding lands Paul in the hospital for days. Qunatrell is suspended, and what follows is as unbelievable as it is utterly plausible. Don't be surprised if you find your jaw slackening as Paul scrapes toward the climax.

Patton Oswalt's performance delivers soundly, including some delightful disgust as Paul prepares for his decisive act. Where this character is lacking though, is in development. Big Fan offers more of a portrait than any kind of arc, and while this is obviously the film's purpose, it gives us nothing to root for; our hopes are dashed almost before they're formed. I wonder if this character could have struggled more with himself and still retained his essential single-mindedness. (Heck, Rain Man did.) As it is, he may be the spitting image of a die-hard writ extreme, but a more pronounced conflict might have furnished a more satisfying richness. Whereas Randy the Ram battles his demons a tragic hero, Paul from Staten Island is just tragic, no hero at all.

Tim Burton's Vincent

I'm clearly behind the curve on this (1982), but what a great film to start off a section for excellent shorts.

Inglourious Basterds

Quentin Tarantino is a cocky son of a bitch.

Inglourious Basterds is better for it. Whatever conventions movie audiences have become accustomed to, Tarantino has no problem turning them on their heads, warping them to suit his needs, or simply abandoning them altogether; he uses any cinematic device he pleases, whenever he pleases, to fill his narrative with a richness of presentation that to my knowledge is unparalleled. The result is at times comic, at times darkly disturbing, and — impressively — oftentimes both. Tarantino's previous films are amalgamations in similar fashion, of course, but Inglourious Basterds does it better. The pervasive violence and eerily plausible dialogue we've come to expect are rolled into a scope and stylistic maturity that thoroughly transcend the cult classic. (And the violence here does not cross into indulgence, as it sometimes has tended to with Tarantino.) (Also, I in no way mean to denigrate cult classics; this is just a horse of a different color.)

As for the cast, Brad Pitt may put bodies in the seats, but the star of this film is Christoph Waltz. I have never felt tension build so steadily and so insidiously as when Colonel Hans Landa permeates a scene. (Tarantino's writing provides the fodder, yes, but man does Waltz sell it.) The international troupe, hailing from the U.S., Germany, Austria, France, brings things off masterfully, offering a superb authenticity to this irreverent, genre-bending tale.

With characteristic musical and cinematographic excellence, Inglourious Basterds is a masterpiece. Tarantino says so right there in the movie. Cocky? Absolutely. But rightfully so. He probably has just released this year's best picture.

"Is your soul weighing you down?"

To attempt to summarize Sofie Barthes' first feature — she wrote and directed — is to utterly fail to do it justice. Paul Giamatti plays Paul Giamatti, a New York actor on the point of being consumed by his latest role. The simple solution? A brand new technology allowing for the safe removal and storage of the human soul.

. . .

Yes, it sounds crazy, and I was skeptical at first too, but do not let the premise of this film keep you out of the theater.

One of the best movies I've seen in some time, Cold Souls is a triumph all around. Beautifully shot and scouted, simply designed (including a few wonderfully humorous details), the filmmaking wants for nothing. Giamatti delivers a deeply felt performance as he covers a range from Shatner to Uncle Vanya. Barthes' script is superb, at once comical and moving; it is easy to imagine how a story hinged on soul removal might well walk itself off a cliff, but Barthes navigates her self-imposed minefield with grace and wit, never once stumbling as she takes us from New York to Russia and even into the soul itself. Effortlessly combining the ludicrous with the thoroughly real, Cold Souls makes absurdity endearing, and poses questions about who we are.

It's dark, it's lighthearted, and absolutely the best film I saw at SIFF. This picture should satisfy anyone in the mood for a good movie. Go see for yourself. (And trust me, the trailers are not doing this one justice either, so go!)

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

Try not to be too surprised, but the sixth installment in the Harry Potter series is not good. (Oh hell, you've probably already seen it anyway.) The pit-falls are many, and before I get more in-depth I'll just say that the dialogue is for the most part pretty stilted, and, let's face it, these poor kids can't really act. (Daniel Radcliffe performed well enough in his Equus stint, but when it comes to portraying normal human interaction he still misses the mark. And I say "kids," though actually they're all now in or nearing their twenties.)

It starts off well enough: a beautifully rendered sequence of furious, smoky forms hurtling through the streets of London, Muggles looking on in pitiable nescience, and culminating with frightening intensity in an attack on the Millennium Footbridge — but immediately, the film fails to capitalize on its elegantly unsettling atmosphere by thrusting us into a jarringly unrelated space. The jumping continues as we're fed event after event, each giving us just enough information to see that it's probably relevant, but not so much as to enrich the experience. David Yates, who also directed the Order of the Phoenix, treats almost every scene with the same contemplative slowness, with the result that even those actions you know must be exciting plod on in languorous dispassion. (He seems also to have had an aversion to the immobile; for all the gently drifting tracking, crabbing, tilting, panning shots, this picture may as well have been filmed in boats.)

The larger problem with Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is its failure to take responsibility for itself. As an audience, we are expected to know what's going on whether it's explained to us or not. Little or no effort is made to connect events or introduce characters, or to impart the gravity of a situation. It's understood that we've all read the book, that the real reason we're there is to see what we've only until now imagined. We already know how to feel. . . . This film is nothing but an illustration of its progenitor. Without the strength to stand, it leans for support; it lacks the heart to propel itself. A similar disservice might be the stage production of The Lion King . . . without music.

But, the visuals are awesome, so we keep coming back.

This is the still larger problem with the American movie audience. Our demands are too shallow. Too many fans of J.K. Rowling content themselves with whatever they're given, satisfied by the mere sight of the story. I spoke to one such satisfied customer who said, Well, I don't really have an expectation that these will be great movies. Another fan, this one angry, though I think he still enjoyed the film, complained only that there is a scene which "is not in the book!" Yet another, observing more than complaining, placed the blame for the movie's impotence on Rowling herself, saying, She's not quite Oscar Wilde when is comes to writing sexual tension.

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A movie is not the book. If it tries to be, it will fall short: merely, as I have said, an illustration. A film must be thought of as separate from its source. Having taken a text or any other material as its starting point, it should be free to evolve and function independently. Without such freedom, Ed Wood may never have met Orson Welles, Jiminy Cricket would have been crushed before he even got on the road, and can you imagine a Jurassic Park with all the trouble in Jurassic Park? (There are limits to how long people will sit.) Of course, Harry wouldn't have found himself flirting with a waitress in a tube station either, but the independence of the Half-Blood Prince serves little purpose.

What we need is to stop being cowed by the wow! of visual effects, and demand movies that stand on their own.

What the remaining two Harry Potter films need, is Alfonso Cuarón. :(

Public Enemies

More often than not, when I have a problem with a Hollywood blockbuster, my primary gripe is with the script. We've all seen them: those big-budget, star-studded, action-packed, over-the-top fiascoes that fall flat because the writers were paid to shit something out as a jump-start to the process rather than worry about crafting anything that even remotely approaches worthwhile—movies that nevertheless make all the money they were meant to because the viewing public is dazzled into hollow satisfaction. Well, Public Enemies has different problems.

At $100 million, Michael Mann's latest comes through with excellent costuming and set design. It would be hard to find a bigger pairing than Johnny Depp and Christian Bale, neither of whom disappoints, bringing the quality performances (and accents) I've come to expect. Though I wouldn't call the film action-packed, there's certainly no shortage of gunfire. (It is about a bank robber, after all.) Throw in French, Oscar-winning beauty Marion Cotillard and who can complain?

Where Public Enemies misses the mark is in the seemingly unlikeliest of places: lighting and cinematography (/ staging). It starts out innocently enough; the hand-held camera and oppressive yellow suit the opening prison-break (even if the shot framing Depp starkly against the blue sky as his car speeds away is a little strange). It's not until the plot slows down and Depp's John Dillinger finds himself in the dark ballroom where he will first meet his sweetheart (Cotillard), that we begin to realize darkness is obscuring some of the critical actions. As the couple dances we become aware of the over-use of close-ups, and as they dine we begin to wonder if the hand-held shake is really appropriate for every emotion. Later, when Bale's Melvin Purvis speaks to his team of investigators, we get our best view yet of how distracting all this mishandling can be as we watch the oddly cast shadows swim over his inappropriately sickly pallor.

If you want to know how the movie ends, I can't tell you. (I walked out.) I kept wanting the performances and story to carry me through, but the plot moved just slowly enough to be overwhelmed by the quick pans and low light (and was not helped along by staging that sometimes de-emphasized important movements). I just couldn't care anymore. The shots you saw in the trailer were the best the film had to offer, and they were too fast, too few and too far between to hold the story. I mentioned the sets, but in truth we weren't really allowed to appreciate their grandeur, washed-out and poorly framed as they unfortunately tended to be. With all the elegance of a Discovery Channel docu-drama, this film looked like it could have been shot in my back yard, so much so that as I walked home under the streetlights I felt like I was still trapped in the screen. Mann's unruly, ill-lit, gritty style may have been appropriate for the modern-day, late-night LA of Collateral, but falls well short of conveying the period romanticism that Public Enemies deserved.

The film isn't terrible, just unwatchable. For this story, send me the novelization.