The night began showy enough.
Count ‘em, FIVE former supporting actresses: the lovely Tilda Swinton, Eva Marie Saint, Goldie Hawn, Angelica Huston, and Whoopi Goldberg, each introduced one of the 2008 nominees after stepping onto the gorgeous stage.
Even the first winner oozed pure Hollywood darling. Penelope Cruz, achingly charming, gave a lovely speech that started cute, “Has anyone ever fainted up here? I might be the first,” included a nod to writers of strong female roles, and ended with an acknowledgment of the unifying power of the Oscars and a message of love and hope in Spanish.
A smart use of host Hugh Jackman’s showman skills charmed throughout and former winners added some oomph by presenting each of the four major individual awards the rest of the evening—truly the most worthwhile change to the show’s organization.
In the second half hour, the grins were still stretched from ear to ear, and as Steve Martin and Tina Fey took the stage to present Best Original Screenplay the deep sweet breaths of relief that were being held, exhaled. The Academy is on top of it! They picked people that can entertain! The winner — the beautiful Dustin Lance Black (give him some screentime!) for Milk delivered a sincere, emotional, and politically relevant acceptance that included a promise of equal rights. Moving, significant, and appropriate, it started a series of similar calls throughout the evening and the characteristically unprincipled film industry appeared, for much the better, as if it had a new conscience and authenticity.
But as the marathon of all awards show moved into the second hour, it began to trudge. All the energy and entertainment that held hopeful attention in the opening ‘best picture’ song-and-dance medley promised more than what would actually be delivered in the rest of last night’s eighty-first annual Academy Awards.
Oh, there were some fun moments, like Jennifer Aniston’s appearance (why, despite her beauty and fame, does she always look like she doesn’t belong among A-listers?) that had us chanting “show Brad, show Brad….” and Jack Black is sure to kill even if no one knows why they’re laughing. But the fun moments did not cut out the painful ones, such as Hugh and Beyonce’s tribute to musicals that despite Beyonce’s incredible talent as commander of attention in any crowd, felt like an overwhelming and overworked collision of showtunes and starpower.
Most of the rest of the night stretched long and hard for maximum entertainment value but fell short of being as enchanting as the setting, the highlights being the 100,000 Swarovski crystal curtain, and an elaborate backdrop for the art direction awards. Queen Latifah sang an acceptable “I’ll Be Seeing You” for a strangely detached “In Memoriam.” More love for Paul Newman please!
Even as the night ended with a gorgeous and eloquent Kate Winslet, an awkward but charismatic Sean Penn, and the adorableness of the entire Slumdog story, it almost wasn’t worth the long wait.
A huge round of applause to Penn, Lance, and Josh Brolin who connected the Oscars with a substantive call for equal rights, but its surprising that politics would upstage such an eager and ardent effort of glittery Hollywood performance.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Help! Final Proposal
I would like to explore how certain sexual and material ideas of women’s power are explored and confirmed in recent popular television shows and films that cater to a female audience. The general idea is that there have been progressive strides in the number and content of shows that cater to women, and even though a lot of these shows have explored power in the context of being a “modern woman,” it is questionable whether or not this exploration has been guided more by women’s perspectives or the economics and profitability of spinning established gender roles into a deceivingly modern package. I could use some guidance in narrowing the scope of the shows and films, as ideally, I would love to include commentary on sexuality (the “L” word etc.) and class (or lack of variety, except maybe Ugly Betty?) as related to the portrayal of women’s power. Other shows I was thinking of are: Lipstick Jungle, Gossip Girl, Gray’s Anatomy, Desperate Housewives, Weeds—all with women at the center powering through life…and films: Devil Wears Prada, and many others that are probably more recent… any suggestions of a more focused angle I can take?
Friday, February 20, 2009
Loving Movies, Loving Life
Pauline Kael certainly believed that film criticism had a lot to show and tell.
Her film criticism, constructive or destructive, was about discovering quality, in film, and in the addition or connection it had with life. Oscar Wilde said “without the critical faculty, there is no artistic creation at all, worthy of the name,” and that sort of self-importance certainly exists in Kael’s work. Reading Kael, there is a sense that the criticism of film was an exploration of a connection, or the possibility of connection, she wanted herself and others to experience at the movies.
In Afterglow, a last interview with Kael, she remarked, “I love writing about movies when I can discover something in them—when I can get something out of them that I can share with people” (95-96). Unique to Kael was how much she cared, how much it broke her heart to not only see poor films, but a barrage of what she called “first-rate intellect” praising bad stuff. To criticize movies, to Kael, was to criticize “mass culture,” and to hold contempt or joy in the way world was working. Film was a tunnel through which to view life and culture. Watching film was to relate to those things that make life what it is, difficult or pleasurable; criticizing film was to take on a personal relationship with the film and, through that lens, with everything it connected with the world outside the theater.
In “Canaries in the Mineshaft,” Adler is deeply critical of Kael and literally picks apart her voice, word choice, sentence structure, and overall positive reputation. After quoting a few Kael reviews that make some severe accusations about the character or nature of the films she’s reviewing, Adler remarks that “each marks a kind of breakthrough in vulgarity and unfairness” (343). Adler objects to being superfluously critical, absolutist, dramatic, and overly and personally presumptuous, for the sake of having a noticeable opinion.
Its true Kael was unique; her unfocused content and unfixed point of view identified her as an outlier, extending an idea that film could touch the world around us, could be identified as worthwhile by our own critical eye, not just at the movies but in life. Her passion for films seems to be equal to her passion and general enjoyment of directing others though her own thought process.
This smattering of self-absorption is alluring.
There is no doubt that readers are free to self-indulge while reading Kael’s reviews. She storms into your conscience and demands some substance, an appropriately decisive and serious attitude about the implications of any given film, and a feeling that subjectivity and individual voice is vital and valid in its self-importance. Kael wants to criticize her world, our world, her frustrations, our frustrations, using film as a medium (sometimes for better, sometimes for much much worse) and in our heart of hearts we want to her to too. Like watching a Steven Spielberg film, it’s easy to jump on the melodramatic ride. Her overstatements make it easy to join in the fun, and as right as Adler is about much of her flashy (sometimes meaningless) prose her value as entertainer is irrefutable.
Readers experience her as she experiences the film; she is part of the show and its endearing. Kael doesn’t demand others to encounter films as energetically and indulgently as she does, but she certainly convinces us to try.
Her film criticism, constructive or destructive, was about discovering quality, in film, and in the addition or connection it had with life. Oscar Wilde said “without the critical faculty, there is no artistic creation at all, worthy of the name,” and that sort of self-importance certainly exists in Kael’s work. Reading Kael, there is a sense that the criticism of film was an exploration of a connection, or the possibility of connection, she wanted herself and others to experience at the movies.
In Afterglow, a last interview with Kael, she remarked, “I love writing about movies when I can discover something in them—when I can get something out of them that I can share with people” (95-96). Unique to Kael was how much she cared, how much it broke her heart to not only see poor films, but a barrage of what she called “first-rate intellect” praising bad stuff. To criticize movies, to Kael, was to criticize “mass culture,” and to hold contempt or joy in the way world was working. Film was a tunnel through which to view life and culture. Watching film was to relate to those things that make life what it is, difficult or pleasurable; criticizing film was to take on a personal relationship with the film and, through that lens, with everything it connected with the world outside the theater.
In “Canaries in the Mineshaft,” Adler is deeply critical of Kael and literally picks apart her voice, word choice, sentence structure, and overall positive reputation. After quoting a few Kael reviews that make some severe accusations about the character or nature of the films she’s reviewing, Adler remarks that “each marks a kind of breakthrough in vulgarity and unfairness” (343). Adler objects to being superfluously critical, absolutist, dramatic, and overly and personally presumptuous, for the sake of having a noticeable opinion.
Its true Kael was unique; her unfocused content and unfixed point of view identified her as an outlier, extending an idea that film could touch the world around us, could be identified as worthwhile by our own critical eye, not just at the movies but in life. Her passion for films seems to be equal to her passion and general enjoyment of directing others though her own thought process.
This smattering of self-absorption is alluring.
There is no doubt that readers are free to self-indulge while reading Kael’s reviews. She storms into your conscience and demands some substance, an appropriately decisive and serious attitude about the implications of any given film, and a feeling that subjectivity and individual voice is vital and valid in its self-importance. Kael wants to criticize her world, our world, her frustrations, our frustrations, using film as a medium (sometimes for better, sometimes for much much worse) and in our heart of hearts we want to her to too. Like watching a Steven Spielberg film, it’s easy to jump on the melodramatic ride. Her overstatements make it easy to join in the fun, and as right as Adler is about much of her flashy (sometimes meaningless) prose her value as entertainer is irrefutable.
Readers experience her as she experiences the film; she is part of the show and its endearing. Kael doesn’t demand others to encounter films as energetically and indulgently as she does, but she certainly convinces us to try.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
For Diane
To clarify, I think Glenn and all the English Department are wonderful. It wasn't personal, but I was surprised and disappointed at the focus of the introduction. I though it was a little inappropriate. Perhaps it was supposed to make aspiring writers, especially seniors, feel more relaxed about widening the scope of their education, or those of us who aren't English majors feel inspired. But that wasn't the message I heard right of the bat, and I was bothered. Reviews are for sharing our reactions, no? Sorry to offend.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Talk to us Pauline!
Pauline Kael certainly had a lot to say. And it was not simply about film as a traditional art form—commentary on the mechanics of direction, acting, production, point of view—these elements are not why Kael is considered one of the most notable film critics ever. Criticism, constructive or destructive, is an addition to an ongoing conversation about something’s quality. Oscar Wilde said “without the critical faculty, there is no artistic creation at all, worthy of the name,” and that sort of self-importance certainly exists in Kael’s work. Reading Kael, there is a sense that the criticism of film was often her criticism of common culture—an exploration of the deeper intellectual and emotional journey one could experience. Something unique about Kael was that his ride was not always obvious but almost always, indirectly, about her personal relationship with the film and everything that she felt it was connected with outside the theater.
In “Canaries in the Mineshaft,” Reneta Adler comments that films are unique in that there is an assumption that everyone goes to the movies, or should for cultural literacy. Films are seen as a reflection of an overall state, a common culture, and thus can be critiqued in relation to the big ideas, an overarching authority. Adler is deeply critical of Kael and literally picks apart her voice, word choice, sentence structure, and overall positive reputation. After quoting a few Kael reviews that make some severe accusations about the character or nature of the films she’s reviewing, Adler remarks that “each marks a kind of breakthrough in vulgarity and unfairness” (343). Adler objects to being superfluously critical, absolutist, dramatic, and overly and personally presumptuous, for the sake of having a noticeable opinion.
Its true Kael was unique; her unfocused content and unfixed point of view identified her as an outlier, extending an idea that film could touch the world around us, could be identified as worthwhile by our own critical eye, not just at the movies but in life. Her passion for films seems to be equal to her passion and general enjoyment of directing others though her own thought process.
This smattering self-absorption is alluring.
There is no doubt of some feelings of reader self-indulgence in reading Kael’s reviews. She storms into your conscience and demands some substance, a sense of higher mindedness, an appropriately decisive and serious attitude about the implications of any given film, and a feeling that subjectivity and individual voice is vital and valid in its self-importance. Kael wants to criticize her, our world, her frustrations, our frustrations, using film as a medium (sometimes for better, sometimes for much much worse) and in our heart of hearts we want to her to too. Like watching a Steven Spielberg film, it’s easy to jump on the melodramatic ride. Her overstatements make it easy to join in the fun, and as right as Adler is about much of her flashy (sometimes meaningless) prose her value as entertainer is irrefutable.
Readers experience her as she experiences the film; she is part of the show and its endearing. Kael doesn’t demand others to encounter films as energetically and indulgently as she does, but she certainly convinces us to try.
In “Canaries in the Mineshaft,” Reneta Adler comments that films are unique in that there is an assumption that everyone goes to the movies, or should for cultural literacy. Films are seen as a reflection of an overall state, a common culture, and thus can be critiqued in relation to the big ideas, an overarching authority. Adler is deeply critical of Kael and literally picks apart her voice, word choice, sentence structure, and overall positive reputation. After quoting a few Kael reviews that make some severe accusations about the character or nature of the films she’s reviewing, Adler remarks that “each marks a kind of breakthrough in vulgarity and unfairness” (343). Adler objects to being superfluously critical, absolutist, dramatic, and overly and personally presumptuous, for the sake of having a noticeable opinion.
Its true Kael was unique; her unfocused content and unfixed point of view identified her as an outlier, extending an idea that film could touch the world around us, could be identified as worthwhile by our own critical eye, not just at the movies but in life. Her passion for films seems to be equal to her passion and general enjoyment of directing others though her own thought process.
This smattering self-absorption is alluring.
There is no doubt of some feelings of reader self-indulgence in reading Kael’s reviews. She storms into your conscience and demands some substance, a sense of higher mindedness, an appropriately decisive and serious attitude about the implications of any given film, and a feeling that subjectivity and individual voice is vital and valid in its self-importance. Kael wants to criticize her, our world, her frustrations, our frustrations, using film as a medium (sometimes for better, sometimes for much much worse) and in our heart of hearts we want to her to too. Like watching a Steven Spielberg film, it’s easy to jump on the melodramatic ride. Her overstatements make it easy to join in the fun, and as right as Adler is about much of her flashy (sometimes meaningless) prose her value as entertainer is irrefutable.
Readers experience her as she experiences the film; she is part of the show and its endearing. Kael doesn’t demand others to encounter films as energetically and indulgently as she does, but she certainly convinces us to try.
NYT Defense: Dargis Reviews "Confessions of a Shopaholic"
Manola Dargis’s review of “Confessions of a Shopaholic” is soft. At least, after reading her review of “He’s Just Not That Into You” last week, I expected her to take a harder line against another film that makes fun of women using qualities that generally deflate and classify men and women into a mismatched binary. Dargis begins and ends with references to the economy, which is notably suitable to filmmakers creating this type of film. We are in the middle of a climate of crisis, and it is no secret that when things go downhill economically, the seeds holding the more traditional values (and supposedly more comforting) start sprouting, or spewing, a surplus/excess of material that “Confessions” fits into neatly. With all its “bright bauble and designer doodad” focus, I am surprised that Dargis didn’t write about the sense of hollowness that films about women and materialism must create, or about its effectiveness in leaving viewers partially numb to reality but at a price of mental vacancy. Then again, I guess the fact that I expected something different than she delivered is good. She focuses more on the story, even though it falls into a predictable pattern, she finds something worth noting—that the women, or main woman in this case, isn’t treated entirely as a fool. I wonder if being a chief woman movie critic at the NY Times, reviewing all the “women” movies, Dargis feels that any change in portrayal, any respect given to women in these types of gender-boxing films, is worth noting and seeing.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Higher Than Thou
Kalamazoo College, a self-proclaimed “institute of higher learning,” hosted Bob Hicok on Wednesday, an award-winning poet from Michigan. The evening began with Hicok’s introduction by faculty member, Glenn Deutsch, who heavy-handedly emphasized Hicok’s blue-collarness, trying to tell the story of a man who made himself with his own talent. It appeared as if the college, or maybe more fairly the English department faculty, was showing how cool it was (especially as writers) by being self-deprecating. That kind of narcissistic amusement with one’s own advantage was thankfully not also a part of Hicok’s touching reading of his work.
His first poem of the evening, “life,” instantly dove deep into a skepticism of a world that pushes for higher forms of participation in structure, and Hicok voiced clear dissatisfaction in what requires “rededicating [him]self to gestures.” Yet he avoided sounding cynical and it was easy to listen and to feel the movement, the shifting of authority, of authenticity, from the “institution of higher learning” to the Hicok’s personal and individual experience.
His messages were clear, the mood and tone set in every poem and in every pause in between. After his second poem, the insomnia inspired “Busy day of my Nights” he gripped the podium and admitted, “I hate poetry readings.” The presentation was touching, emotive, and funny—he filled the space mostly with comments about filling the space so that nervous giggles were suddenly soothing, expected, and part of the experience.
All his poems, all that was his presence—gestures, diction, humility, created a feeling of being witness to and living with and through him the true and relatable human experiences he described. The relevance of his work made the introduction perhaps more discomforting, with its unnecessary emphasis on the differences between reader/poet and listeners. Why we connect those who can pair clarity and humanity with blue-collar, self-education, is where a true lack of sophistication and a form of emotional immaturity lies. But, thanks to Hicok’s oozing sincerity, this disappointment mostly vanished by the time the last poem, “A Primer,” an ode to place and Michigan, was read. It is a testament to the English department, despite the crude and objectionable posturing, that the Kalamazoo community had a space for Hicok to come and to personally share his powerful considerations of life with emotional and intellectual authenticity.
His first poem of the evening, “life,” instantly dove deep into a skepticism of a world that pushes for higher forms of participation in structure, and Hicok voiced clear dissatisfaction in what requires “rededicating [him]self to gestures.” Yet he avoided sounding cynical and it was easy to listen and to feel the movement, the shifting of authority, of authenticity, from the “institution of higher learning” to the Hicok’s personal and individual experience.
His messages were clear, the mood and tone set in every poem and in every pause in between. After his second poem, the insomnia inspired “Busy day of my Nights” he gripped the podium and admitted, “I hate poetry readings.” The presentation was touching, emotive, and funny—he filled the space mostly with comments about filling the space so that nervous giggles were suddenly soothing, expected, and part of the experience.
All his poems, all that was his presence—gestures, diction, humility, created a feeling of being witness to and living with and through him the true and relatable human experiences he described. The relevance of his work made the introduction perhaps more discomforting, with its unnecessary emphasis on the differences between reader/poet and listeners. Why we connect those who can pair clarity and humanity with blue-collar, self-education, is where a true lack of sophistication and a form of emotional immaturity lies. But, thanks to Hicok’s oozing sincerity, this disappointment mostly vanished by the time the last poem, “A Primer,” an ode to place and Michigan, was read. It is a testament to the English department, despite the crude and objectionable posturing, that the Kalamazoo community had a space for Hicok to come and to personally share his powerful considerations of life with emotional and intellectual authenticity.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Documentary Reviews
After watching and reviewing "Taxi to the Dark Side" I am really interested in watching and reviewing more documentaries. Check this review out.
What do you think?
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/11/movies/11grea.html?ref=movies
What do you think?
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/11/movies/11grea.html?ref=movies
Monday, February 9, 2009
Hollywood and Bollywood: A recipe for bliss
by Jacqueline Rogers
She is smiling in brilliant orange. Amidst the dirty streets a goddess in flowing layers of mango-colored fabric is smiling and serene. Radiance flows from the oranges, saffron’s, purples, and blues of people passing where she stands, the train station in Mumbai’s chaotic streets. But this is a world of contrast, of contradiction; this is a story of love versus the self-preservation of poverty and the poverty of self-preservation. Look up for a moment and darkness looms; anger and violence ready to destroy the warm smile, a darkly grinning brother ready to sacrifice love to fight for control of his pithy life.
For anyone who has dismissed Bollywood, reconsider with the charm it adds to Slumdog Millionaire. Slumdog Millionaire is just as colorful, dazzling, and admired as the films created in Mumbai (Bollywood is hugely popular in other parts of the world. It sold 3.6 billion tickets last year; Hollywood 2.6 billion) but its clever structure avoids many of the clichés and corniness that have long kept Bollywood movies out of American popular culture. Directors Danny Boyle and Loveleen Tandan seem to have tailored this hybrid of Bollywood and Hollywood for American viewers on tough times.
Charming British actor Dev Patel plays Jamal Malik, an 18 year-old orphan from the slums of Mumbai, who is just one question away from winning a fortune of 20 million rupees on India's “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” Arrested on suspicion of cheating, he is taken to suffer in a dingy police station and tells them this incredible story, moving from the slums of Mumbai and back again for the girl he loves and keeps losing, Latika. The film moves from game-show question to flashback, leading a journey of Jamal’s tragic and vibrant life to show how he, a slumdog and chai-wallah, came to know the answers to the Millionaire show’s questions.
The story is partly predictable but its convention only comforts. Everywhere else in the film is the adventure; Boyle and Tandan manage to keep a taste of India at the film’s center yet westernize the overall production, with producer Christian Colson. The brilliant colors are pure India, as are most of the film’s young and talented stars, three for each of the main characters as the story builds from childhood to late adolescence. The strongest element in the film is the visual, and cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle captures Slumdog’s playful and shadowy spirits with a vibrancy and variety of angles that doesn’t feel too contrived. The richness of the different perspectives coupled with a fun and heart-pounding music selection keeps eyes and ears dilated, eager for more life and intensity to resonate from the screen.
At times, slight tension can be felt in the attempts to reconcile Western drama/comedy and Indian Bollywood magical realism. The storyline sometimes begs a question of plausibility. Luckily, the weakest storyline moment of the film is intelligently placed in one of the more endearing montages, when the brothers magically become fluent in English while scamming Western tourists at the Taj Mahal.
Some criticism claims an irresponsible romanticism of slums and poverty, but, a bit sadly, is almost the point. It is not unlike Nike ads idealizing American black ghetto life to sell an image of rags-to-riches basketball superstars. Slumdog relies on the predestined being reassuring. It's the American dream packaged for some Indian spice. Hollywood and Bollywood, the perfect recipe for a depressed public. India still occupies a space in the American psyche as achingly raw and beautiful, magical, a land of elephants. Right now, it's what is digestible. And Boyle and Tandan made Slumdog gobble-able—like a starving pack of economically depressed wolves, we are ready to tear into anything joyful.
Bollywood films, for many Americans, have run along a thin line of simplicity that can feel insulting. But in this case, the formulaic fairytale is welcomed in the beauty and spirit of India. Slumdog Millionaire releases a sort of poignant exuberance that the American film industry has not produced in what feels like decades. Slumdog is neatly packaged bliss-in-a-box and brilliant in its energy and its timing—America sure needs something to smile about.
She is smiling in brilliant orange. Amidst the dirty streets a goddess in flowing layers of mango-colored fabric is smiling and serene. Radiance flows from the oranges, saffron’s, purples, and blues of people passing where she stands, the train station in Mumbai’s chaotic streets. But this is a world of contrast, of contradiction; this is a story of love versus the self-preservation of poverty and the poverty of self-preservation. Look up for a moment and darkness looms; anger and violence ready to destroy the warm smile, a darkly grinning brother ready to sacrifice love to fight for control of his pithy life.
For anyone who has dismissed Bollywood, reconsider with the charm it adds to Slumdog Millionaire. Slumdog Millionaire is just as colorful, dazzling, and admired as the films created in Mumbai (Bollywood is hugely popular in other parts of the world. It sold 3.6 billion tickets last year; Hollywood 2.6 billion) but its clever structure avoids many of the clichés and corniness that have long kept Bollywood movies out of American popular culture. Directors Danny Boyle and Loveleen Tandan seem to have tailored this hybrid of Bollywood and Hollywood for American viewers on tough times.
Charming British actor Dev Patel plays Jamal Malik, an 18 year-old orphan from the slums of Mumbai, who is just one question away from winning a fortune of 20 million rupees on India's “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” Arrested on suspicion of cheating, he is taken to suffer in a dingy police station and tells them this incredible story, moving from the slums of Mumbai and back again for the girl he loves and keeps losing, Latika. The film moves from game-show question to flashback, leading a journey of Jamal’s tragic and vibrant life to show how he, a slumdog and chai-wallah, came to know the answers to the Millionaire show’s questions.
The story is partly predictable but its convention only comforts. Everywhere else in the film is the adventure; Boyle and Tandan manage to keep a taste of India at the film’s center yet westernize the overall production, with producer Christian Colson. The brilliant colors are pure India, as are most of the film’s young and talented stars, three for each of the main characters as the story builds from childhood to late adolescence. The strongest element in the film is the visual, and cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle captures Slumdog’s playful and shadowy spirits with a vibrancy and variety of angles that doesn’t feel too contrived. The richness of the different perspectives coupled with a fun and heart-pounding music selection keeps eyes and ears dilated, eager for more life and intensity to resonate from the screen.
At times, slight tension can be felt in the attempts to reconcile Western drama/comedy and Indian Bollywood magical realism. The storyline sometimes begs a question of plausibility. Luckily, the weakest storyline moment of the film is intelligently placed in one of the more endearing montages, when the brothers magically become fluent in English while scamming Western tourists at the Taj Mahal.
Some criticism claims an irresponsible romanticism of slums and poverty, but, a bit sadly, is almost the point. It is not unlike Nike ads idealizing American black ghetto life to sell an image of rags-to-riches basketball superstars. Slumdog relies on the predestined being reassuring. It's the American dream packaged for some Indian spice. Hollywood and Bollywood, the perfect recipe for a depressed public. India still occupies a space in the American psyche as achingly raw and beautiful, magical, a land of elephants. Right now, it's what is digestible. And Boyle and Tandan made Slumdog gobble-able—like a starving pack of economically depressed wolves, we are ready to tear into anything joyful.
Bollywood films, for many Americans, have run along a thin line of simplicity that can feel insulting. But in this case, the formulaic fairytale is welcomed in the beauty and spirit of India. Slumdog Millionaire releases a sort of poignant exuberance that the American film industry has not produced in what feels like decades. Slumdog is neatly packaged bliss-in-a-box and brilliant in its energy and its timing—America sure needs something to smile about.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Slumdog Millionaire Enchants and brings some needed Bliss to the US
For anyone who has the desire to experience a bona fide Bollywood film, Slumdog Millionaire is not your answer. Slumdog Millionaire is just as colorful, dazzling, and admired as the films created in Mumbai (Bollywood sold 3.6 billion tickets last year; Hollywood 2.6 billion) but its clever structure avoids many of the clichés and corniness that have long kept Bollywood movies out of American favor.
British actor Dev Patel plays Jamal Malik, an 18 year-old orphan from the slums of Mumbai, who is just one question away from winning a the fortune of 20 million rupees on India's “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” Arrested on suspicion of cheating, he is taken by the police and tells them the incredible story of his life: from the slums of Mumbai and back again, and of the girl he loves and keeps losing, Latika, played by the beautiful and mostly convincing Frieda Pinto. The film moves from game-show question to flashback, leading a journey of Jamal’s dynamic, tragic, and vibrant life to show how is it he, a slumdog and chai-wallah, knows all the answers to the game show questions.
Amazingly, directors Danny Boyle and Loveleen Tandan (co-director India) manage to keep a taste of India at the films center yet westernize the overall production, with producer Christian Colson. The brilliant colors are pure India, as are most of the film’s young and talented stars, three for each character as the story builds from childhood to late adolescence. Slight tension can be felt, however, in the attempts to reconcile Western drama/comedy an Indian Bollywood magical realism. The storyline begs the questions of its level of plausibility. Luckily, the weakest moment of the film is intelligently placed in one of the more endearing montages, when the brothers magically become fluent in English while scamming Western tourists at the Taj Mahal.
The strongest element in the film is the visuals, and cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle captures Slumdog’s playful and shadowy spirits with a vibrancy and variety of angles that doesn’t feel too contrived. The richness of the different perspective coupled with a fun and heart-pounding music selection keeps eyes and ears dilated, eager for more life and intensity to resonate from the screen. Bollywood films, for many Americans, run along a thin line of being annoying with characteristic simplicity and perky humor that this modernized rags-to-riches fairytale does well to avoid. Instead, Slumdog Millionaire releases a sort of poignant exuberance that the American film industry has not produced in what feels like decades. Slumdog is brilliant in its exuberance and its timing—America sure needs something to smile about.
British actor Dev Patel plays Jamal Malik, an 18 year-old orphan from the slums of Mumbai, who is just one question away from winning a the fortune of 20 million rupees on India's “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” Arrested on suspicion of cheating, he is taken by the police and tells them the incredible story of his life: from the slums of Mumbai and back again, and of the girl he loves and keeps losing, Latika, played by the beautiful and mostly convincing Frieda Pinto. The film moves from game-show question to flashback, leading a journey of Jamal’s dynamic, tragic, and vibrant life to show how is it he, a slumdog and chai-wallah, knows all the answers to the game show questions.
Amazingly, directors Danny Boyle and Loveleen Tandan (co-director India) manage to keep a taste of India at the films center yet westernize the overall production, with producer Christian Colson. The brilliant colors are pure India, as are most of the film’s young and talented stars, three for each character as the story builds from childhood to late adolescence. Slight tension can be felt, however, in the attempts to reconcile Western drama/comedy an Indian Bollywood magical realism. The storyline begs the questions of its level of plausibility. Luckily, the weakest moment of the film is intelligently placed in one of the more endearing montages, when the brothers magically become fluent in English while scamming Western tourists at the Taj Mahal.
The strongest element in the film is the visuals, and cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle captures Slumdog’s playful and shadowy spirits with a vibrancy and variety of angles that doesn’t feel too contrived. The richness of the different perspective coupled with a fun and heart-pounding music selection keeps eyes and ears dilated, eager for more life and intensity to resonate from the screen. Bollywood films, for many Americans, run along a thin line of being annoying with characteristic simplicity and perky humor that this modernized rags-to-riches fairytale does well to avoid. Instead, Slumdog Millionaire releases a sort of poignant exuberance that the American film industry has not produced in what feels like decades. Slumdog is brilliant in its exuberance and its timing—America sure needs something to smile about.
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