The Brewhaha on..."World's Greatest Dad"

The world’s greatest dad:  “You used to like music.”
The world’s greatest son:  “Yeah.  When I was a fag.  Anyone who listens to music is a fag.”
The world’s greatest dad:  “Oh, what about metal?  Is metal for fags?”
The world’s greatest son:  “Yeah.”
-A couple of fags, deciding to try and bond

“Though a little slow and light on gags, this is a bold attack by writer-director Bobcat Goldthwait on the kind of facile, pseudo-redemptive tosh so popular on both sides of the Atlantic.”
-Christopher Tookey, Daily Mail

“Not one character seemed to be anything more than a set-up for the film's contrived agenda, in a loud film that was too disingenuous for me to find any character to identify with or care about as the film eventually punks out and offers up great heaps of gooey drivel after a good start realistically showing an unpleasant father-son relationship.”
-Dennis Schwartz, Ozus’ World Movie Reviews

“The intimate, grim character study shifts into grotesque high satire and suddenly wants to make a point with a capital ‘P.’ It’s hard to argue with Goldthwait’s assertion that society’s search for spokesmen leads to false prophets, but it feels like an observation well-made many times over in the ’90s, at the height of anti-celebrity culture.”
-Justin Strout, Orlando Weekly

“Instead of coming off as compassionate to the sad sack Lance, it feels snide and all too willing to scowl at the goodness in people. With more consistency of vision, or any vision at all, really, World’s Greatest Dad could [be] seen as a statement the about damaged lives that we all live. As is, however, it is a mess.”
-Jeremy Heilman, MovieMartyr.com

Wrapping up this scant month of reviews comes a sleeper hit starring Robin Williams, the 2009 film known as “World’s Greatest Dad.”

First of all, for any children of the 80’s such as myself, it probably needs to be said that the director for this film is Bobcat Goldthwait.  For any children of the 80’s who still haven’t heard of him, you might recognize him better as this guy (the one with the ping-pong ball in his mouth).

All caught up now?  Good, because apparently the guy from “Scrooged” who shot up the place has done more than one movie.  As well as the Jimmy Kimmel show and Chappelle’s Show.  Seriously.

For those of you who have just caught up with me, though, Goldthwait is probably one of those examples of how we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.  Exhibit A was that first video I linked to.  Exhibit B was the second video.  And Exhibit C, in case you don’t believe this guy is a comic genius, happens to be “World’s Greatest Dad.”

“World’s Greatest Dad” is a fairly dark film—not unyieldingly so, we do see those idealistic moments encapsulated in Williams himself, as well as various members of the ensemble—but the moment we see the world’s greatest fag son quoted above, we know this isn’t exactly going to be “Leave It To Beaver.”  (Btw, has that line been used enough over the past fifty years that I should just stop using it?  And has anyone, ever, actually watched “Leave It To Beaver”?  I’m still convinced it’s just a myth.)

I’m going to try not to spoil it (even though every other review I’ve seen is pretty open about it, and you can read all about it on Wikipedia).  At the end of the day, it’s a fairly character-driven piece, which becomes apparent the moment we get to meet the son.  And the humor, as macabre as it may be, is also organic and rises out of the situation; there isn’t really anything forced about it.  About halfway through the film, it moves slowly from character study to high satire, but it never really loses the human touch of Robin Williams’s reserved performance.

A special mention goes to the scene where he decides to write the suicide note.  At first, it just seems to come out of left field (well, more so than most other letters to our loved ones), and I wasn’t really sure why he was doing this.  Then I thought quietly to myself, “Oh, right.  Because I would want to get caught doing that.”  As black as this comedy gets, the sheer emotional torque of the scene is more than enough to save it.  And Goldthwait, as subversive a filmmaker as he is a comedian, still gives us some beacon of light around the hour-and-a-half mark.

Obviously, The Brewsky gives this film a glowing recommendation.  If you can manage to catch a night away from the young’uns and rent it from your local Blockbuster, it will be worth every minute.  It’s good for a quiet night at home curled up with your sweetheart on the couch, discussing the merits of self-inflicted martyrdom and last wills and testaments and their correlative relationship with mob mentality.  As well as whether or not you should add Bruce Hornsby to your iPod.

Note:  The Brewsky is an enthusiastic contributor and movie reviewer.  And a fag.  Yeah, I said it.

The Brewhaha on..."The Illusionist"

“[Jacques Tati’s] eldest daughter's perception of him as a child was mainly formed from what she had seen of him in character on screen. l'Illusionniste script deals directly with the dilemma he was facing on how would his daughter respond once she realised the gentile man on the silver screen was not the same man he was after the dim theatre lights had been switched back on.”
-The grandson of Jacques Tati, discussing the original script

“How good or bad Chomet's take on Tati's script is a matter of personal choice but having seen it in Belgium earlier this month I was thoroughly disappointed by the execution of what is a very melancholy story.  […] I was left never quite understanding the bond between the magician and the girl.”
-By PJ on July 28, 2010 10:50 AM

“Close-ups are rare, the faces sketchy and expressionless, so what Tati must have intended as a quietly intimate story of two characters becomes a movie about cityscapes, automobiles, trains, rolling clouds and all the other visual filigree that Chomet does so well. The story is rather cold and uninvolving, but the very look of the movie is striking and never dull.”
-Jim Lane, NewsReview.com

“What [Jacques] Tati might have done with such a wee plot is open to speculation, but Chomet fills it with the hope of youth and the dark romance of a man coming to terms with his own disappearance. It's only an illusion, but it's magic.”
-Amy Biancolli, The Houston Chronicle

There’s the old saying that goes “You write what you know.”  In the case of “The Illusionist” (L’Illusionniste) a 2010 French-British animated film directed by acclaimed animated filmmaker Sylvain Chomet, our writer in question has given us the tale of a father-daughter relationship.

“The Illusionist” is a semi-autographical tale, a supposedly lost script penned by acclaimed silent actor and director Jacques Tati back in the 50’s.  (In fact, an EW poll declared Tati the 46th greatest movie director of all time.  Don’t believe me?  See for yourself.)  He was the creator of such films as “Mr. Hulot’s Holiday” and “My Uncle” (“Mon Oncle”), but the script for “The Illusionist” was one of many projects which were lost before his death.

Tati himself emphasized that the title illusionist featured in his script (much less in the recently filmed version) is his own unique character, and not just a stand-in for Tati himself.  In fact, Tati intended for a different actor, one Pierre Etaix, to play the part of the title character.  However, the impact of Tati’s personal demons are nothing to be ignored in this animated adaptation.

Illusionists, more than many other entertainers, are liars by definition.  They sweep us up in a world of magic, always holding our attention, while at the same time keeping it away from the string he uses to hold the cards in his sleeve or the rabbit he’s hiding under the table.  The quandary of the late Tati, however, was a matter of family, specifically his daughter Helga-Marie Jeanne, who he had neglected and even disowned under monstrous circumstances during WWII.  His demons were those of abandonment, and “The Illusionist” was, in so many words, the end result of him grappling with these demons.

The title character does what his real-life counterpart never really could; he practically showers his young companion with gifts.  As far as we know, he has no name, but quickly we come to sympathize with this nameless father figure, who magically finds himself with a young traveling companion (who herself remains nameless as well).

One thing that seems lost in translation, for us dumb old Americans who have never really heard of Jacques Tati, is that the girl in question truly believed the title character was a bona fide magician.  Tati’s concern was what his estranged daughter would think, and whether or not she could see through the façade of one Monsieur Hulot to find the man who ended up abandoning her.  Much in the same way that Tati pulls the wool over our eyes, the illusionist has his adopted daughter in a continuous state of awe.

The film is less dialogue-driven, much in the same vein as Chomet’s breakout hit, “The Triplets of Belleville,” as well as most of Tati’s films.  However, “The Illusionist” is also beautifully animated, and what little the characters actually say is made up for in their body language.  Still, I’m not sure the “less is more” approach works in this case.  Normally I would praise a film for leaving some things to mystery, but in this case, the questions were more along the lines of basic “why’s.”  Why is this man travelling with this girl?  Is this his daughter?  Is she just some girl he picked up?  Why is he doing all of these nice things for her?  Why would he let her tag along?  Why is he doing this?  Why is he doing that?

For flaws such as these, though, and with the controversy surrounding Tati and his family life, “The Illusionist” is still a masterpiece of animation, characterization, and atmosphere.  An unapologetic tribute to one of the great directors and silent actors, and a welcome change of pace from the usual films out there, “The Illusionist” is, at its core, a moving, almost heart-breaking tale.  Even as the swan song for one of the most acclaimed entertainers of our time, it’s still worth checking out.

Note:  The Brewsky is an enthusiastic contributor and movie reviewer.  And he knows how much you missed him.  If he leaves town like that again, he’ll be sure to at least call next time.

The Brewhaha on... "Pontypool"

“Pontypool. Pontypool. Panty pool. Pont de Flaque. What does it mean? Well, Norman Mailer, he had an interesting theory that he used to explain the strange coincidences in the aftermath of the JFK assassination.”
-Pontypool…Pontypool…

“The movie is charmingly indebted to John Carpenter’s The Fog, whose DJ heroine played on through her own town’s invasion, but it’s much more sophisticated, better acted, and certainly more novel.”
-Tim Robey, The Telegraph

“In the bilingual province, it turns out the English language is infected, causing those who hear it to turn into monsters. Not a bad idea, but good lord is there a lot of talk - none of it as profound as director Bruce McDonald seems to think - with the ghoulies barely making an appearance.  Too much jaw, not enough gore.”
-David Edwards, The Ticket

“If it wasn’t so boring, the dialogue would be a laugh a minute. The acting is so abominable that the cast is better off unmentioned. Like most Canadian movies (this is a rude generalization that I have learned, through time and experience, is worth making), it has no tension, meter or structure, and is utterly pointless.”
-Rex Reed, The New York Observer

“What constitutes this clever iteration of zombie virus and how it spreads is a sly satire on shock radio, on gossip, on The News itself. Gore fans hoping for buckets of blood will be disappointed; thoughtful horror fans who appreciate that a truly scary movie is mostly in your head will love it.”
-Mary Ann Johanson, Flick Filosopher

People have come to call “Pontypool” a zombie movie.  But, in reality, it is so much more.  Its seemingly simple premise—a zombie “virus” transmitted through language itself—is used as a framework for how we perceive the world.  The power of communication is something we tend to take for granted; “Pontypool” paints a nightmarish scenario where that process of communication, so second-nature to us that we can’t imagine living without it, becomes the means of our destruction.

The film is set mostly in a radio studio in a small Canadian town.  Immediately, we have an antithesis, a point of conflict between the characters’ setting and the plague about to befall it.  As is the case with countless other movies of this vein, their channels of communication are soon cut off.  The action centers around four characters; one cowboy hat-donning radio jockey, one beleaguered producer of his, one cute twenty-something Afghan veteran and local tech girl, and one obligatory movie scientist, a Dr. Mendez, who details the origins and nature of the virus.

The movie takes a while to get into the “meat” of the story, around thirty or forty minutes in before the characters finally realize the severity of their situation.  The narrative is structured around suspense, and one of the basic shorthands of storytelling: “Less is more.”  For the former half of the film, the most firsthand knowledge we receive of their threat are snippets outside the studio from the unofficial fifth character and eye-witness to the catastrophe, one “chopper” reporter Ken Loney, who ends up succumbing to the mindless hordes.

The latter half finally drives home not only the reality of their situation, but also the futility of trying to inform the world of this situation.  Because, by the time you have finished reading that last sentence, you will have already become one of them.

Most films (or at least, most of the good ones) would try to deconstruct their character archetypes, or the genre of film.  This one deconstructs (or at least tries to deconstruct) basic concepts such as meaning and communication, the latter of which (specifically, its complete and utter breakdown) is already a staple in many a zombie film.  Worse yet, by grasping any concept at all, one can fall victim to the worst nightmare of all, a fate worse than death, and horrifyingly enough, by understanding this concept, you, the viewer, open yourself up to the same fate.

In many ways, this film is the inverse of many zombie films as of late.  Rather than simply getting their brains eaten or otherwise “turned off,” the monsters of the movie are actually formed via understanding.  Rather than seeking communication to the outside world, our protagonists must seek to cut themselves off from the world.  And rather than the young, Dawson’s Creek-type heroes we’ve seen in movies lately (I’m looking at you, Star Trek movie), the young’uns are shooed out about halfway through.

In this case, it’s all about communication, or the lack thereof.  Our friendly radio D.J. (Stephen McHattie) is the little boy who cried wolf, and who never really stopped crying wolf once he “grew up.”  His words are never to be taken at face value, and he is someone who looks for meanings within meanings.  The producer (Lisa Houle) is constantly trying to keep him in check, calling him out on his antics and trying to push that nasty thing called “actual news” on him.  The tech girl (Georgina Reilly) is able to communicate with our man in his radio booth via IM, and keeps them posted on the goings-on outside the studio.  Finally, Dr. Mendez joins the main cast, actively trying to discourage them from communicating with the outside world in order to keep the plague from spreading.  Ken Loney continues the male tradition of blanking out the studio with little more than static through his frantic, emotional breakdown of a running commentary once the actual zombie plague is introduced.

So, overall, is “Pontypool” a good movie?  That depends on your definition of “good.”  Is it a great movie?  Again, depends on your definition of “great.”  Is good great, or is good bad?  Is bad good, or is bad worse?  Is great goodness?  Is great God?  Is God good?  Or is God worse?  God is worse.  Worse is worms, is a razor, is a sunny day, mosquitoes?  Worse is worms.  Or, worse is…what is worse?

Note:  Worse is a deck.  Worse is the deck, stacked against you.  Worse is the number four.  Worse is…worse is the deck.  Worse is…it’s worse.  Worse.  Worse.  It’s…worse.  Worse.  Worse.  Worse.  Worse.  It’s…simply worse.