Blurbing For The Weekend 8/9/24
Lordy, lordy, lordy. Let's just pretend I wrote a paragraph of possible reasons I'm atypically heat-bedraggled for early August. And let's push through a few quick blurbs about movies I watched recently.
I'm in a Philip Seymour Hoffman mood lately, possibly because he made being a tired, heat-bedraggled schlub look so beautiful. So affecting. So soulful. He's my Bruce Springsteen. When A Most Wanted Man was released right after his death in 2014, the last thing I wanted to do was watch him pretend to be German in a John Le Carre adaptation. But a decade later? The sadly abbreviated length of his filmography all the more transparent? That sounded dope. Plus I loved Anton Corbijn's Ian Curtis biopic Control, and figured the dude couldn't whiff a well-plotted spy thriller. And I was right!
Hoffman plays the gruff leader of a German spy team tracking immigration in Hamburg, a feat all the more impressive considering the team is played by capable, charismatic actors from Germany. I can't say whether he nails the accent (I left a U.S. army base in Germany when I was zero and haven't been back since), but he achieves the necessary papa bear gravitas to keep Daniel Bruhl and Vicky Krieps from looking embarrassed around him. Willem Dafoe and Rachel McAdams are less successful as a German banking scion and an American immigration lawyer, respectively, possibly because it's not clear whether the characters are atypically out of their depth dealing with intrigue around Al Qaeda money laundering, or if they’re just out of their depth in general. There's some refreshing ambiguity around Muslim customs. It’s not telegraphed whether Corbijn wants us to find prayer and hushed conversation poignant or ominous, which fits a locale where the threat of fundamentalist terrorism and the cruelty of Islamophobia co-exist. Like most Le Carre adaptations I've seen, Man is an easy watch, but pointedly lacking action flick catharsis or momentousness. Honestly, it's sad this isn't just another decent Philip Seymour Hoffman thriller. FIVE BAGS OF POPCORN.
I didn't know Love Liza even existed until a few years after its release, when I was working at a video store. I didn't know it was about huffing gas until people were posting pics on Twitter in reference to...I can't even remember! Still in the Hoffman mood, I checked it out on Criterion and, damn. Mandatory viewing for the Philipophile. Directed by Todd Louiso (the shy clerk in High Fidelity), Liza is mostly our hero grieving the death of his wife, afraid to read the letter she left behind, and getting into inhalants (and tangentially, model planes) to distract himself from the task of existing. The rare moments we spend away from him feature Kathy Bates as his mother-in-law, perfectly cast as someone more capable, more considerate, but still shattered. Poignant, unpredictable and a real time capsule of when indie actor showcases didn't have one eye on social media and the other on the Oscars. I also learned Stephen Toblowsky should get to play more non-goofballs. FIVE BAGS OF POPCORN.
This might be a great time for B horror at the box office, but Abigail is proof these films can't all be inspired. The problem here is the script, which is a little too convinced that an evil child ballerina chasing criminals around a big house doesn't require particularly interesting character work or a coherent point of view. Kathryn Newton and Giancarlo Esposito pull off familiar personas, and Kevin Durand has fun playing the goofy foreign heavy. Sadly, Dan Stevens - as much as I love him - isn't who I'd call to play a crooked ex-cop from New Yawk. Especially, if you don't write him any good lines. I've enjoyed movies directed by Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett plenty, but it's notable that the most inspired, Southbound, is an anthology film about haunted souls loosely tied together by unexplained supernatural horror. Abigail is about a generic heist team trapped with a ballerina vampire. Harder to hide behind vibe there. THREE BAGS OF POPCORN.
And now, some POPCORN CLASSICS:
Wolf Of Wall Street ironically feels like the last word on the Apatow manchild era today: Martin Scorsese reveling in the sarcastic, cynical degeneracy of People Who Would Hang Out With A Jonah Hill Character, digging the energy and audacity, but not remotely pretending there's anything poignant going on - just flamboyant, successful sociopathy you can’t pretend people don’t find fascinating.
Werewolves Within, reportedly half-inspired by a video game I never heard of, doesn't do that much with its concept or cast. But until there are more movies about kooks getting offed by a hellbeast in rural Vermont, or more movies starring Sam Richardson, Milana Vayntrub, Harvey Guillen, Sarah Burns and Michaela Watkins, I'll settle for this modest, amiable horror comedy.
I've been staying clear of Martin McDonagh films since they became Oscar bait, but I've still got a soft spot for Seven Psychopaths from 2012, which is a '90s post-Tarantino throwback right down to its deep affection for Christopher Walken. For all his crimes against taste, McDonagh may have been the first auteur to get that Colin Farrell is never more endearing than when he's a hapless schmuck, which makes him perfect to play the uninspired screenwriter (yeesh) that a group of goofy serial killers (yeesh) and mob hitmen (YEESH) revolves around. It's nonsense, but Walken and Woody Harrelson are given fun bits, and Sam Rockwell isn't too insufferably manic.
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