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.

!

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. :(