Daisies (1966)

Over the years I've soured on '60s New Wave films - the more I see, the more I am disenchanted. I think most of the movement has been overly romanticized by a lot of critics and fans. It's as if the historical and social associations in which they came from are enough reason to keep propping them up year after year as amazing, undefeatable works of art. There's not enough focus on the content and not enough separation from the historical context to warrant a genuine reading of the entire movement. However, there are a few New Wave films that I feel successfully escaped the ravages of time. They've side-stepped the movement's inevitable irrelevance and bounded into the territory of eccentric legacy. It's always nice to discover even more of these films, especially by surprise. The Czech film, Daisies, is my most recent addition.

I can't say I thoroughly "like" Daisies, but at the same time it provides an endless amount of curiosity and unforgettable imagery. It's not so much a movie as it is an abstract narrative collage, pieced together by disparate moments, revolving camera filters and esoteric set pieces. Director Vera Chytilova goes out of her way to disorient and muddle the story of two spoiled young women as they indulge in extremely reckless, selfish, and ultimately, meaningless behavior in order to throw her audience for a loop and most likely poke holes in a male-centric bourgeois class of Czechoslovakia at the time.

The pair of women (whose names are never clearly stated) have a freewheeling appetite for destruction. They swindle old rich men out of their money, manipulate love-struck suitors into falling for them, crash fancy parties and banquets for free food and booze, lounge around in bed with scissors as they systemically destroy their own room out of boredom - all the while laughing it off without a pang of conscience to speak of. These are two girls that you hate to love - they're hyper-intense unaccountability becomes charming in a very backwards way.

You don't want to condone their lack of etiquette, you don't want to smirk at their cocky narcissism, you don't want to be endeared by their flippant disregard for other people - but you do. At least, I did. It's kind of like watching a car crash and being awestruck by the force and gravity of the event itself, rather than focusing on the horrible aftermath. These two women are demons incarnate but they are charismatic, gorgeous and, most of all, intriguing.

As it remains vehemently wild and unpredictable, Daisies is filled to the brim with small details, scatterbrained vignettes and a frothing sea of minutia. The girls' room, for example, is a testament to the intricacies of set design. It seems every time the story returns the pair to their room, it is decorated differently - always in garish, haphazard fashion - but always different. Chytilova takes time to pan slowly around the room as the two bask in the consequences of their behavior, snipping sausage links with scissors and pasting magazine cut-outs on the wall. In a sense, these are the calm moments before the storms. These are the moments where you reflect, almost in conjunction with the characters, on why they act the way they do.

But Chytilova doesn't have any answers to offer. Amidst the camera's playful flip-flops between black and white, color, blue filters, red filters and orange filters, the film never makes a point of explaining why the two women act the way they do. There are a few moments of exposition that reprimand the duo, but it concedes that they would not recognize how to change their ways, even if they were willing to.

You could perhaps construe that it's a meditation on women's liberties in the '60s, and that such behavior was seen as destructive by men in Czech society at the time, but I feel like it leans more toward the transcendental quality of cackling anarchy. I enjoyed the film because it never apologized for the behavior of the women, instead glorifying their foolishness to an absurd degree. It's perhaps an even more deviant and frightening portrait of what society might be like without responsibility and ethics thrust upon it, than the countless post-apocalypse scenarios you find all over the place in movies and books.

Daisies is a film which ultimately points out that life is a mess and sometimes there is nothing moral or meaningful to be gleaned from it. It's that sentiment in itself that makes the movie work so well. It's chaotic structure and black-humored self-awareness provide a straight shot to the gut that will definitely leave you pondering. Nothing is sacred and there are no consequences. It's just two crazy women getting trashed, smashed, sexed and stuffed - in a very evocative and satisfying fashion.

In Favor of Articulate, Discriminating Moderation: Irrational Positivity (Critic)

Irrational Positivity (Critic)

In my last post, I spoke about the breakout of irrational positivity found in the audiences of art - those willing masses (or small groups) who seem to want every new form of popular or niche stimuli they are exposed to be the ultimate/thrilling/romp-tastic/ridiculous/amazing thing that either holds their attention for all of two and half weeks until they move on to their next big catch OR remains in their big, slouching bag of opinions wrapped in a coating of superficial context. The important point I attempted to outline last time was distinguishing between genuinely positive opinions of works of art - wrought from reflection, moderation and discrimination - and blinded-by-science, rah-rah enthusiasm - a combination of short-term memory, lazy wonderment and fair-weather acceptance.

There's a major difference between enjoying Citizen Kane on a deeply felt, pure level and enjoying it because expectation and common wisdom have dictated it be so. I remember hearing my entire life how "amazing" Citizen Kane was, how much of an American masterpiece it was, how vital of an experience it was. I was bombarded with these grand-standing slogans at every turn and it was hard to form a cogent, personalized expectation of the film. I finally saw the damned thing and, of course, I didn't quite share the effervescent cheer that so many critics and fans (irrationally positive and genuinely positive) had.

It wasn't that I went into Citizen Kane with the resentful aim of hating it no matter what - that would be a hefty dose of hypocrisy. I went into it as neutral as possible and gauged it for what it actually was. I'll be honest, I thought it was an interestingly shot film with an engaging premise, but these particular elements of a film do not make the whole experience. I also found the film meandered and provided it's own painfully transparent self-importance. In short, I thought it was -alright-. The film, in my opinion, is not nearly worthy enough of the obligatory praise that it receives on a yearly basis.

There's a line of thinking where a work's historical context is the insurmountable argument against negativity towards it. Which, naturally, is total bullshit. There's a difference between respect given to works of art for the conditions they were fostered within and actually enjoying the work itself, IN ADDITION to respecting said context. And this, my friends, is where the IPCs (Irrationally Positive Critics) enter the game - because where else is historical context more perpetuated, than by critics?  

Citizen Kane is such a perfect example of this ideology. IPCs would have you believe that the film was the end-all-be-all of American cinema, ramming it's historical relevance down your throat until your personal taste is completely suffocated (whether you realize it or not). Citizen Kane contained many technical achievements and  an unprecedented amount of artistic freedom at that time in Hollywood, but is that merit enough to automatically enjoy it? IPCs think so. Their brand of irrational positivity comes from a dogmatic education and interpretation of film born from the halls of academia.

Common academic methods, such as analysis and contextualization, can be useful tools in forming coherent, discerning opinions on works of art, but there is a dangerous line to be walked when applying said methods. Academia can stifle intuitive understandings of the art work in question and even force people out of their gut feelings entirely in order to fit some subsidized cultural interpretation. The opinion, though eloquent and thoughtful, is representing one very specific way of reading a work of art. It voids most of the personal enrichment that could have come without the needling clockwork and societal extrapolations of academic theory.

On the other hand, you have the "feel-good" IPC, who turns even the shittiest, most detestable work of art on the planet into a light-hearted tease. Film critic Gene Shalit was a major proponent of this method, using ridiculous puns to soften the blow for any film he did not like and kiss the cheeks of the one's he did. The irrational positivity here is self-evident. How do you learn anything from a person so afraid to actually dig in and tear something to pieces when the need arises? How do you learn anything from inscrutable praise based on fluffy observations, marketing buzzwords and cute rhymes?

I am not a fan of Roger Ebert, but at least he has the gusto to be passionately negative about a film when he thinks deserves it. Ebert hates a favorite film of mine, I Am Curious Yellow, and though I disagree completely with his assessment of the movie, I respect that he had a genuine reaction to the film and articulately communicated thus to his masses. On the flip-side, Ebert adores the New Wave classic, Last Year at Marienbad, which I despise, but I appreciate that his positivity is culled from an authentic place within. He is primarily steeped in academia, but I do think Ebert injects enough personal reflection into his reviews to warrant respect.

Naturally, IPCs and IPAMs (Irrationally Positive Audience Members) are a self-perpetuating and self-congratulating lot, so it's hard to plunge your hand in and rip away the heart of the beast. Their fervor for positivity is so strong, they would see the world burn around them before they gave an inch on the merits of Community or the integrity of LCD Soundsystem. Still, folks who are aware enough of their own tastes can learn a thing or two from the world of spoon-fed enthusiasm. You can avoid the indiscriminate and unaccountable paths people take to arrive at their cardboard "opinions" on works of art. You can hold on to the works that really mean something to you, despite the tumultuous sea of endless new trends. You can sidestep preconceived notions, academic posturing and party-line critical praise in order to form your own opinion. You can do this and be proud of the fact that when you liked that movie, that album, that book, that sculpture, that mixed-media collage, it was an appreciation that came, first and foremost, from within.

In Favor of Articulate, Discriminating Moderation: Irrational Positivity (Audience)

I thought I'd take a break from movie reviews this week to drop some thick cultural observations on the various ways people react to arts criticism and the methods in which art critics present their opinions, all in an effort to expel some personal grudges and present how I developed my own methodology when it comes to reviewing art. These are opinions that have been marinating in my brain for a little while now, and I'm hoping they taste just right - that I did not put too little or too much brain-sauce on these slabs of thought. However, it's one of those things where passion tends to trump cordiality, politeness, benefit-of-the-doubting, etc, in favor of a wild dose of pure honesty.

To ease the presentation of these scattered thoughts on arts criticism, I've decided to explain my ideas in four sections that I feel succinctly organize my whole point - Irrational Positivity (Audience), Irrational Positivity (Critic), Irrational Negativity (Audience), Irrational Negativity (Critic) - sections that highlight the disparity of opinions and overblown reactions to specific works of art. I'll end things with a fifth section, Discriminating Moderation, in which I'll explain how my own critical methodology (both as a critic and an audience member) was formed in an effort to avoid the pitfalls of the previously mentioned mind sets.

Irrational Positivity (Audience)

Firstly, what do I mean when I say "irrational positivity" as it applies to arts criticism and an audience? Irrational positivity  describes the way some people act after they have experienced a work of art (especially right after), where discrimination goes out the window and the work gives them a kind of exuberance (in this case, a mixture of genuine and forced) -  so much that it's practically oozing out of their eyeballs. It's not to say a  person is "wrong" for developing a fervent bond with a work of art, I don't think that has to be explained. However, I do find that there is a disparity between the honest construction of a newly formed positive opinion and a slippery synthesis of collective appreciation, first-timers syndrome and a general lack or all out negligence of self-reflection.

Let's use Jurassic Park as an example. Let's say Ted goes and watches Jurassic Park  for the first time, well after its prime and initial popularity, but riding a wave of nostalgic or classic popularity. He says that he loves the movie. But does he love the film itself or the film's reputation? Does he love the film or does he love the director's reputation? Throughout his life, Ted has likely been told how great Jurassic Park and Steven Spielberg are (conversely how much they suck, but I'll get to that view point later) by friends, family, an indiscriminate assortment of web writers and, if he's enough into reviews, critics he enjoys reading.

With all that outside influence, can Ted watch Jurassic Park in any kind of true, original fashion? Personally, I don't think so. Not unless Ted is self-aware enough to step back from all the opinions he has synthesized, really open his eyes and watch for himself - not his friends, not his family, not the critics - himself. If he can place himself within the space of the movie and just let it be, than he can have a genuine reaction, whether it be positive or negative.

Comedian Pete Holmes phrased it well in one of his podcasts, where he talked about people actually having an "opinion". In speaking about one of his unfinished bits, Pete explained that he hated when he went on dates and asked them what they thought about something, like a movie, and they simply said, "it's amazing" in response. For Holmes, that is NOT an opinion. There is nothing backing it up, it has no sinew attached to it. They just blindly adore that particular movie.

And fuck forbid you actually challenge the sweeping joy for a film or record of one of these IRAMs (Irrationally Positive Audience Members), because they will crucify you with smugness and passive aggressive condescension at every turn. Even suggesting some lack of even-handed observation on their part will send them on a tilt-o-whirl of over-compensation, with wildly aimed judgements at your own thought process. It's that kind of "oh, well, he's questioning my joy for this thing I love and suggesting that maybe, just maybe, this film I love is not the definition of perfection - time to undercut his criticism by making him out to be a negative, pretentious troll".

The issue that IRAMs don't seem to understand is - especially in a public space like Facebook, a forum, a club meeting, a comment strand or other communicative arena - opinions are fair game for scrutiny, even by friends and acquaintances. I understand that trolls have kind of ruined the credibility of those who actually have reasonable but discriminating taste, but IRAMs certainly don't understand the distinction. It wreaks havoc on a genuine, fair-minded exchange of thoughts. Even if IRAMs ask why their opinion of a beloved work has been questioned or criticized, it's nearly always posed as a challenge rather than a welcome cycling of ideas.

A great example of this lies in the arena of highly anticipated Hollywood blockbusters. It's not like Hollywood has ever given us a consistent reason to anticipate anything they put out, but if you speak a single critical word about a serious huge flick, ala The Dark Knight Rises, such as the possibility it's just rehashing ideas of previous entries in the series, which weren't amazing to begin with, IRAMs will eat you alive. You haven't suggested that the movie is going to be downright terrible, you haven't said it's not worth watching, but it doesn't matter to the positive lynch mob. In fact, I think IRAMs are more obsessed with the anticipation and trends surrounding the film, rather than the film itself.

This definitely happened when Kick-Ass was coming to theaters, everyone rode that bandwagon hard and never gave a second thought as to how it'd be executed. It was a graphic novel movie with a slight post-modern twist on comic book heroes, and that was enough. Then it was pretty much universally terrible, except a few interesting elements, and people said it was still "a good attempt" to save face with their social circles.

I feel many lessons can be learned from the IRAM view point, not least that you can love something to pieces and still recognize and tip your hat to the flaws in it. Another lesson to learn is that there isn't always justification for those flaws found in some round-about logic. Naturally, all art is subjective but there is a line where people need to just let go and admit that, yes, this part of this work is personally shitty to me and I don't like it. The most important lesson, though, is taking art with a grain of salt from the get-go. Some might assume this stifles natural reactions and expression to a work, but in fact, tempered scrutiny will only strengthen your bond and allow you to take the negativity in stride, debate with reasonable coherence and set the bedrock for a well-informed, multifaceted taste.

The Night Porter (1974)

It's not everyday you come across a World War II film that takes a very personal and subversive route for it's storytelling. Liliana Cavani's The Night Porter is an anomalous post-war film that goes off in wildly sexual and bizarre directions, never once thinking to bludgeon you over the head with tired WWII idioms. There are no easy, hyperbolic Nazi villains, no sad-sack accounts of Jewish prisoners, no blood-spattered Normandy beach invasions. The Night Porter is, instead, a deeply felt exploration of the sadistic relationships that form in the face of overwhelming decadence, power and cruelty.

The film is set 13 years after the war, following Maximilian, a former S.S. officer that now works as the night porter at a prestigious hotel in Vienna. One day, a former prisoner of his, Lucia, walks into the hotel. The meeting conjures up feelings of the past and the two start to fall into the sado-masochistic relationship they had during the war. Max's old comrades actively work to clear him of his past by tying up any loose ends and eliminating any witnesses to his past actions, but Max begins to worry as they set their sights on Lucia.

The Night Porter, with it's straight-across editing, features so many stark, unforgettable moments, you'll be reeling by the end of it. This is primarily because half of the film plays out in the memories of the various characters, daydreaming at a familiar sight in the present day. Cavani expertly juxtaposes the past and present, drawing a firm, dark line to show that things may change but old habits die hard. The most powerful scene of the film is constructed in this fashion, where Max and Lucia separately attend the same ballet performance.

As the dancers get underway, Max observes Lucia a few rows ahead of him, and their shared memories come gushing forth. The austere classical music of the ballet continues to rise as the scene shifts to Lucia - roughly cut short hair, pale, darkened eyes and emaciated - sitting in a musty hospital bed surrounded by other prisoners. Max approaches in full Nazi uniform, taking her away to conduct his experiments. As the memories progress, there is a visible mark of enjoyment in Lucia's eyes. The punishment and pain have turned into a pleasure of dependency and domination.

Luckily, the sexual sadism in the film is never exploited or turned into a grotesque monster. Cavani's camera provides an even-hand, framing Max and Lucia's relationship with an understated grace. In fact, towards the middle of the film, it becomes something of a bizarre love story. Max attempts to keep Lucia alive and away from the clutches of his old comrades, no matter the cost. It's because the two are inextricably bound by an obsession with punishment and dominance, an obsessive, inverted affection that is only shared between them.

Though Charlotte Rampling does a fine job as Lucia - particularly during the famous cabaret scene where she is half-naked, wearing an S.S. hat and trousers - the film is tailored much more towards Max, and Dirk Bogarde delivers in spades. Bogarde plays the ex-Nazi as a smug, cunning and quiet man who has transcended his obedience and loyalty to the Third Reich, but still revels in the twisted machinations that his given power allowed him. All the mild-mannered exchanges, punctuated by soft smirks and kind eyes, have a pitch-perfect execution, making Max simultaneously the comforting protagonist and the inscrutable villain.

The only major failing of The Night Porter is the pedestrian original score. It's a set of harmless, jazz-infused pieces that sound very indicative of the opening credits to a '70s TV sit-com. If the film had only relied on the occasional disquieting classical and opera pieces featured in several key scenes, The Night Porter's sense of solidification would be complete.

Of course, it's a rare case where the score doesn't sabotage the experience. Cavani's portrayal of the taboo, politically rapturous relationship between Max and Lucia is captured with such a clear-headed moderation, it makes The Night Porter a daringly original film, even to this day. The director's tasteful penchant for high-art visuals and ironically affecting relationships will put you in a strange, but ultimately satisfying, space. And at the end of the day, who couldn't do with a little Nazi decadence?

Melancholia (2011)

Lars Von Trier is the fucking mack-daddy of misanthropes, especially when it comes to filmmakers. This is an idea he, more or less, admits to in interviews and explores in full depth with the bulk of his movies. Plastered like rancid, gummy flesh across the conceptual walls of his mind is Lars' obsession with the dark impulses of humanity. He seems to find fear and delight equally in all the corruption and stupidity that people have wrought in our time on the Earth. And so his films are all about punishment, consequence and inevitability - I feel he wishes to see humans suffer for their hypocrisy, their ignorance, their malice, and what better way to exercise those demons than through the medium of film?

Von Trier's latest turn, Melancholia, may largely follow suit with the rest of his filmography but this time he puts his deep-seated frustration, fear and humility on the grandest scale possible - the end of the world. Melancholia takes places at a remote golf course/mansion, where two sisters attempt to keep their lives together amidst the impending collision between Earth and a traveling planet. The film is broken up arbitrarily into two parts, one focuses on the younger sister, Justine, and the second focuses on the older sister, Claire. I say it's arbitrary because the story merely continues chronologically and each sister plays an equally important part in the others storyline.

Kirsten Dunst pulls off an excellent performance as the deeply troubled, inconsolable Justine. Yes, you read that sentence right, Kirsten Dunst actually has some chops. It's proof that there are many actors out there (just think of Mark Ruffalo in Zodiac as another example) waiting to unleash themselves but are relegated into generic and listless movie roles for the bulk of their careers. Dunst's Justine is the dour, black heart of the movie. Dunst highlights a mixture of extreme anxiety and desperation during the wedding party sequence, in which Justine is bombarded by the expectations of her family and her employer. In the second part of the film, Justine gradually transforms into a sort of doomsayer sage. She's calm, collected and ready for the end, traits which Claire, who is normally composed and rational, is forced to take shelter in as Melancholia approaches.

Von Trier uses the two sisters as sort of yin-and-yang harbingers of imminent doom. They both know it's coming, but they each deal with it in different ways, at different times. They each interact with Claire's son, Leo, in different ways, as well. At times, you get the sense that Claire and Justine are just one personality trapped in a perpetual somersault of schizophrenic opposites. There's many scenes of Claire coddling and caring for Justine, bathing her, feeding her, but the dynamic changes. In a scene where both sisters are sitting at the table, Claire speaks to Justine with deep uncertainty, saying how it'd be nice to have wine and play music before the end comes. Justine snarls back at her that none of that matters, it's the end. The stability has shifted to Justine, who is seen as a pillar of support when the void is embraced.

It's not to say Von Trier's end of things is all doom and gloom, though. The film is at first a mix of sharp black and yellow contrast, then a dream-cloud of gorgeous light blue and green - haunting colors that permeate the scenes leading to Melancholia's arrival. Music from Wagner's Tristan and Isolde bellows in on sparse occasions, hinting at and eventually heralding the end of days. The film also takes place on a golf course. It's an unlikely setting which has to be the director's ultimate tongue-in-cheek slight at a sport that literally defines the corruption and complacency of the privileged. Perhaps it is the upper class that Von Trier seeks to punish in the film. Maybe Melancholia is an answer to their collective sins.

Even with that idea in mind, I have to admit that Melancholia plays it too close to the chin at times, especially when Justine flat out says the line "The Earth is evil", when Claire asks her why this is all happening. Alright, Lars, thanks. Because that gargantuan cataclysm in space wasn't an obvious enough metaphor. There's also the question of the necessity of the wedding party to the story. It's an interesting sequence of events, but some of the subplots, such as Justine's relationship with her husband, father and mother are never recalled or spoken about after they fade out of the story. It's as if Lars couldn't figure out how to successfully marry the social observations in a world denying it's fate and the eventual solidarity of the apocalypse.

It took me a good two weeks to figure out if I actually liked Melancholia, and I think on the whole I really do like it. There's a specific seepage and gravity that Von Trier tends to achieve with his films, usually making you like (or hate) his work only after a due period of reflection. This happened to me after I watched some of his other films like Europa and The Element of Crime. The best thing I can say about Melancholia is that, in true Lars fashion, it's a movie that doesn't pull any punches. There's nothing to soften the blows and no places to turn for comfort. It's a genuine lightening bolt to the gut, and although it isn't my favorite Von Trier film, I'm glad he made it.

The Future (2011)

There's a high a degree of artificiality running through Miranda July's The Future, that makes the movie almost obnoxious to watch. It's ironic because you'd think a movie that paints an intimate portrait of a couple on the verge of an emotional and existential crisis would be anything but artificial. However, July takes the long way around, turning what could have been a genuine emotional catharsis into a dog and pony show for hipsters. I don't use the term "hipsters" as a vague generality, either. Certain movies, like The Future, are moving in this very specific direction - the way characters talk, the way the movie transitions from scene to scene, the way music is implemented. This kind of understated, enigmatic visage is speaking directly to a range of personas that have been forged in the fires of superficial culture and taste.

That is, ultimately, what a "hipster" amounts to in my experience. Someone who latches on to the surface level of trendy or purposefully obscure philosophical, historical, political and scientific ideas, music, movies, technology, books, language, sex, visual art, fashion, nature, etcetera, in an attempt to create a particular image for themselves, to join an "exclusive" community of the like-minded and to garner a shallow sense of self-expansion. It's not a matter of, "does this interest me?", it's more like, "does this interest me enough that I can use it to appear cultured/intelligent/cynical/compassionate/mysterious/ambitious/forthright?". Yes, that means even you're grandma, who votes democrat every time just because they're vaguely considered the "liberal" party and doesn't really care to conduct a full examination into what the party stands for, is something of a hipster.  

The Future seems to cater to the interests of book hipsters in particular - the kind you'd find in any self-respecting college fiction writing program. It plays out very much like a magical realist short story, written by a junior at said college, with all the speaks-for-itself drama, dips into surrealism and esoteric dialogue that you can stomach. The couple, Sophie and Jason, seem to have a relationship built on breezy minutiae and fanciful extrapolations. They sit in their apartment, speaking about stopping time with their hands and picking out a song that reminds them of their relationship, one that would shake them out of a proposed amnesia. They talk about their mild dissatisfaction with their jobs, they touch on the pervasiveness of the internet in our lives.

These are topics that can be presented in an intriguing fashion without the feeling of put-upon curiosity that July rams down your throat. While obviously a very personal film, the writer/director assumes that her audience is on board for all the theatrics she has to offer. That presumption leads to the artificiality I spoke of before. Like a play by Tennessee Williams, the dialogue and character motivations are so stilted that you end up feeling nothing for them. Several times throughout the film, I was yelling in my brain, "NO ONE TALKS LIKE THIS UNLESS THEY'RE TRYING REAL HARD TO DO SO".

I found Sophie to be a particularly insufferable character, and it wasn't love-hate, trust me. July portrays Sophie as a mousey, impulsive 30-something who ends up cheating on Jason with an older man. She's clearly dissatisfied with their relationship, but it wasn't enough motivation to randomly jump off the deep end and into bed with a total stranger. There's a scene in the film which Sophie highlights the lack of accountability found in certain women. Laying in bed with Jason one night after she has cheated on him, sleep does not come. She is wide awake and eventually Jason wakes, feeling her heart beating faster and faster. He asks her what's wrong and she struggles to answer. She manages to say, "I'm wild", to which Jason says, "that's ok", and she replies, "no, it isn't".

This could have been a very poignant scene, but there is no gravity or sinew attached to it. Movies aren't required to answer deep sociological questions, such as the nature of a cheating heart, in the midst of their drama, but July was clearly implying negativity toward the reckless nature of some women, perhaps even herself. It definitely wasn't a neutral observation. The problem is that she never provides any results of her musings. She just leaves it at, "women do things that don't necessarily make sense and come to regret it anyway". And I just thought, fuck that. You have the opportunity to change minds or provide some insight to a certain degree and you elect to just shrug your shoulders and pull a shit-eater smile?

That's fundamentally what's wrong with The Future, it doesn't really say anything while attempting to make you feel a whole lot. Essentially, a movie hipsters can be proud to say they watched, enjoyed and thought was quietly profound. Jon Brion's calming ambient guitar score only bolsters the idea that the movie was ready-made for that guy or girl you always see wearing flannel shirts, and they won't shut the fuck up about Bon Iver or Wilco, and they're too proud about riding their bike around, and they make sure all their coffee is Fair Trade. It's a shame, though, because in the past, Miranda July turned her idiosyncrasies into enjoyable little trinkets with Me and You and Everyone We Know. There seems to be a fine line between fashion statement and storytelling, and July must be walking it constantly.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011)

I still have not read Stieg Larsson's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, but if either film adaptation is a fair judge, it's a messy, convoluted mystery that meanders heavily on the personal lives of the main characters. All of this, in desperate hope of warming up the cold data streams, the dusty record books, the obscure photos and the torn newspaper clippings found therein. While the Swedish version and the American version certainly have major differences, one thing remains consistent - the emphasis on research. For better or worse, that seems to be the core of Mr. Larsson's novel.

David Fincher recently presented to the world his version of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and it is an adaptation that is ultimately too reckless to be great, but too tactile to be awful. The film peripherally tracks the recent disgrace of esteemed journalist Mikael Blomkvist and the sexual abuse of the young computer hacker Lisbeth Salander, as the two become involved in a 40-year-old investigation regarding a disappeared member of the wealthy, devious Vanger family.

I will say right out of the gate that Fincher paces the story much more effectively than Niels Oplev did in the Swedish version of the film. Unlike Oplev's indecisive stop-start motion, you can tell Fincher wants to get on with things, and it never stops moving forward. Unfortunately, a hefty portion of the director's trademark gravitas is sacrificed in the process. Unlike the tense build-ups, dark humor and rich characterization of his previous works - Zodiac, Se7en, The Game and even The Social Network - The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo feels like it's a new luxury car being pushed out of a manufacturing plant to meet a strict deadline. The pacing may be more effective but the contents framed within don't always meet Fincher's typical standards of quality.

The best example of flawed execution are the research segments, which are littered across the entire movie. Where as in Zodiac you felt like you were an active and engaged participant in the investigation, Fincher forces you outside in Dragon Tattoo. In an effort to streamline the story's chronology, the audience becomes ineffectual bystanders, just nodding along and thinking how cool it looks to see the vague research methods employed by Lisbeth and Mikael as they uncover the truth. There are so many sequences of panning by desks filled with notes and books, shifting laptop programs and wall photo trees with indiscriminate yarn and push-pin strewn across them. You just look at all of it and say to yourself, "yes, they have been doing research". There's no personal satisfaction or epiphany, it's just, "this is the plot, this is how the plot came to be", which would be fine if the story's severity didn't come directly from all that esoteric research.

I thought all the performances in Dragon Tattoo were decent. Nothing necessarily to write home about, but the acting was solid all around. I actually preferred Daniel Craig's Blomkvist to Michael Nyqvist's in the Swedish version. Nyqvist's portrayal seemed to be more of an ineffectual buffoon, where as Craig presented some slapdash (but affecting) passion into the character. Of course, the real draw is the black leather punk, Lisbeth Salander. Rooney Mara plays her with a mousey defiance, never really raising her voice or acting out of turn, instead taking on the role of deadpan harbinger. Naturally, as a damaged 23-year-old waif with tattoos, piercings and partially buzzed hair, she embodies the assertive goth/punk/emo fantasy expertly. She certainly doesn't shy away from sex, even turning rape to her advantage at one point.

Perhaps that says something about the preferences of Stieg Larsson? All I know is that I would have rather had Noomi Rapace back in the role of Lisbeth. I feel like Rapace's more intense and volatile rendition of Lisbeth was more affecting. She still had her apathetic drawl but it always met with a fiery passion burning underneath.

So, add to all that a disappointing and misplaced music score (a big step down from The Social Network) filled with generic bells on top of wavering ambience, and you have a sloppy, sloppy film. Sloppy in its material, concise in it's form. The question really is, was this version of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo even necessary? It doesn't improve enough upon the Swedish version (which is already Hollywood-ified) to justify its existence. Is the idea of not having to deal with subtitles an excuse to blow $100 million dollars?