It’s been a long time since I reviewed a film that wasn’t recently released – Blade is the last one, and actually, the only one, to my knowledge. But the experience of watching Lost Highway was so singular that I find I must write something on it, even if it’s not a proper review.
This is my first David Lynch film. I watched it last night with a group of friends. Only one of them – not myself – was not only inclined to view the film with an open mind, but was experienced enough with such artistic films that he actually predicted a major plot twist that I, suffering from the utter pain the film was inflicting upon me, would probably never have seen coming.
I think that perhaps my lengthy experience with Mystery Science Theater 3000 and the cinematic fare it showcased caused me to immediately see in Lost Highway all the hallmarks of a film that Tom, Mike and Crow would weep bitterly after being exposed to. There is no linear plot, or even linear subplots, with a few exceptions; the actors are rather second-rate (with all due respect, Mr. Bill Pullman, you will always be Lone Star, unless you find another facial expression or two); and the sex scenes are, quite frankly, out of control. I think Patricia Arquette spends at least half her screen time in this film naked and having sex.
But enough about the story, or lack thereof. I want to comment on the style a moment. Mr. Lynch, why the glacially slow dialogue and protracted silences in the beginning of the film? Why the bizarre (but funny) tailgating incident? Why the constant, gratuitous sex? Are there answers to these questions? Do they all have the same answer?
One commentator, found on the Internet Movie Database, noted that the entire film was like a dream. That is one way I can look at this film – someone’s dream caught on celluloid. But the “Pete” section is too cogent for a dream. However, the random, slow, and often jerky imagery of the half-hour “prologue” is extremely dream-like, and even the switch between the Renee character to the Alison character (or is it vice versa?), both played by Arquette, can be seen with some swevenic logic.
I think the primary reason I felt I should memorialize the occasion of watching Lost Highway with this commentary is that I actually went to th Internet afterwards and read reviews and interviews in an effort to make sense of the film. I failed, miserably. Lynch will reveal nothing, leaving this miasma of random images and microscopic plots to the personal interpretation of the viewer. I have come away with a sense that I have either a.) missed the point entirely due to my inability (from a lack of either intelligence or savvy) to “get” the film; or b.) been severely cheated by watching the cinematic equivalent of a Modernist novel without the heart or soul buried within. Lynch expressly called the film a “story,” but to appreciate a story, humans need characters that they care about (in some way, good or bad) and some kind of strong emotional or logical thread throughout the work (and if it is fear of intimacy, as some have suggested, then it is nearly immolated by imagery and randomness). Everything else is just throwing stuff at the wall and seeing what happens to stick.
—09/14/99
The 13th Warrior was completed over a year ago, with a
budget rumored to have broken the $100 million mark. Directed by John McTiernan
and produced by McTiernan and Michael Crichton, who wrote the novel the film is
based on, the film is a mediocre medieval action film that could have been much,
much more.
Based on Crichton’s Eaters of the Dead (a much more
provocative title), the film is about an Arab ambassador to the Tartars who gets
mixed up with a bunch of Vikings. Crichton began the novel by translating the
parts of the historical narrative of Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan related to the Vikings;
he then left the boundaries of non-fiction by extrapolating a tale loosely based
on the epic Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf. Actually, Crichton had an
intriguing idea – provide a historical basis for the epic poem, like the
historical Trojan War that inspired Homer’s romanticized Iliad. And Beowulf
is indeed steeped in as much Scandinavian tradition as Anglo-Saxon.
Unfortunately, the film does not explore this idea very much, particularly since
the audience is distracted by the superfluous presence of Fahdlan (Antonio
Banderas). In the end, the film seems more the story of Fahdlan than Buliwyf
(Vladimir Kulich), the "Beowulf" of the story; which would be fine, if
the film didn’t suffer from schizophrenia between the two roles for most of the
movie.
The plot is relatively simple. While journeying to Asia, Fahdlan
and his servant, Melchisidek (Omar Sharif in a well-performed cameo), come
across a group of Vikings. They take some time to relax with the huge men from
the North, giving Fahdlan a chance to be disgusted by their hygenic habits. Then
another Viking vessel arrives, telling their king, Buliwyf, that an ancient evil
is menacing the kingdom of King Hrothgar (a name identical to that of the king
menaced by the monster Grendel in Beowulf). A Norse soothsayer says that
13 warriors must go to fight this menace; but the last must be a foreigner.
Looking rather diminutive against the huge Vikings, Fahdlan reluctantly agrees
to join them.
The rest of the film consists mostly of bloody medieval combat,
with the occasional clever moment of culture shock, such as when Banderas finds
himself unable to wield a gigantic Norse broadsword. He shaves the blade down
into a scimitar, and after displaying his prowess with the weapon, a bemused
Viking asks him, "When you die, can I give that to my daughter?"
Overall, however, the film seems rather scattershot, and
there are lots of area that could use work, both in production and plot. There
are breathtaking scenes of mountains and valleys in the bright sun which shift
abruptly to deep-orange hues that color the entire scene. There are night and
cavern scenes so dark it’s often difficult to discern what’s going on – who was
killed, who killed them, etc. Fahdlan teaches Buliwyf to write "There is
one God, and Muhammad is his prophet," but Buliwyf makes not comment on
this monotheistic statement, quite different from his own religion’s tenets.
King Hrothgar’s son, a disgruntled prince, tromps about with a seeming intention
to gum up Buliwyf’s efforts, but after the other Vikings teach him a lesson by
killing one of his lackeys, he disappears from the plot.
In terms of acting, the performances are adequate, though not
outstanding. Banderas doesn’t seem to have as much fun with this role as he has
with other action films – but the sense of seriousness, of a pseudo-historical
epic, that pervades the film may be partly responsible. Kulich, in the only
other role of note as Buliwyf, is decent, but doesn’t seem a strong enough actor
(at least not yet) to anchor a major blockbuster – which causes a problem when
the plot focuses on him rather than Banderas’ Fahdlan.
But is the film entertaining? Yes and no. Whenever Fahdlan is
trying to deal with the strangeness of Viking society, the film has a light tone
that works well with Banderas. But when the Vikings grimly theorize about their
enemies and how to deal with them, the plot drags. Plus, at least two of the
three major battle scenes of the film take place in pitch-black darkness, making
them nothing but a confusing jumble of shadows to the viewer.
Finally, there’s the main question: is Banderas convincing as an
Arab? Not particularly, since he’s barely managed to eliminate the Spanish
accent out of his English. Now he’s trying to speak English with an Arabian
accent. Add the fact that his good looks just aren’t at all Arabian, and you’ve
simply got to suspend your disbelief. It would be forgivable if Sharif wasn’t so
excellent by comparison.
Overall, The 13th Warrior was an intriguing concept gone
rather wrong. While entertaining at points, it’s not something that must be seen
at the theater. If you’re into Vikings or Beowulf, rent it in a few
months.
—09/01/99
The Sixth Sense is a summer blockbuster that has restored
my faith in films. After a rather disappointing crop of studio hits – the
plot-less Phantom Menace, the clever but re-treading Austin Powers 2,
the stylish but unsubstantial Blair Witch Project, the annoying Matrix,
the botched 13th Warrior – along comes The Sixth Sense with an
excellent plot, good acting, and best of all, a sense of pace that is nearly a
lost art in films today.
The film stars Bruce Willis. The Sixth Sense overcomes
this hurdle through its sheer excellence of script and the acting of Haley Joel
Osment, most recently seen as a boy dying of cancer on an episode of Ally
McBeal. As a child actor, Osment is simply remarkable in his role as the
"gifted" boy who, as all the ads remind you, can "see dead
people."
The plot revolves around the efforts of Willis’ child
psychiatrist, Malcolm Crowe, to help the Osment’s Cole Sear. Cole, who keeps his
special ability a secret from everyone, including his mother Lynn (Toni Collette)
and Crowe for more than half the film, doesn’t think that Crowe can help him.
But Crowe has a special drive to succeed with Cole; at the beginning of the
film, he is confronted by a former patient (Donnie Wahlberg) who claims that
Crowe failed with him, and after shooting Crowe, the patient kills himself. A
year later, a haunted Crowe latches on to Cole’s case, determined not to fail
again.
To be fair, Willis’ performance is fine, though it requires
little interaction with anyone except Osment, who shines so brightly in his role
that he almost eclipses anyone else in the scene. Though it doesn’t show in the
more cheesy roles, such as the Ally McBeal episode, Osment has a gift for
acting that should make him one of the greats, if he survives the switch from
child actor to adult. Regardless of the future, however, Osment deserves to be
nominated for an Oscar for his performance in this film.
Also excellent is Collette as Osment’s harried,
end-of-her-rope single mother. Though exasperated with her son’s mysterious
behavior, Lynn is always loving and determined to do her best.
One other thing…yes, the film has an excellent ending, as I’m
sure anyone who’s seen the film has mentioned to you. Perhaps they even goofed
and told it to you. Well, don’t let the deter you from seeing the film. The
ending is just the icing on the cake; actually, it’s just the roses on the cake
icing.
Credit for the script and the directing goes to 28-year-old M.
Night Shyamalan, whose work I will look for in the future (Shyamalan himself can
be seen in a cameo as a doctor who mistakenly suspects Lynn may be abusing
Cole). Also deserving credit is film editor Andrew Mondshein for helping with
the marvelous pacing of the film, which adds to the creepy, eloquent feel of the
film. One of my favorite touches is the opening credits, which fade in and out,
ghostly against the black background, before a single shot is seen. It gives a
sense of dramatic suspense as well as building anticipation for a good film.
Remember when all films used to be so reserved? Me neither.
—09/01/99