buyjesus
Joined Mar 2000
Welcome to the new profile
Our updates are still in development. While the previous version of the profile is no longer accessible, we're actively working on improvements, and some of the missing features will be returning soon! Stay tuned for their return. In the meantime, the Ratings Analysis is still available on our iOS and Android apps, found on the profile page. To view your Rating Distribution(s) by Year and Genre, please refer to our new Help guide.
Badges2
To learn how to earn badges, go to the badges help page.
Reviews40
buyjesus's rating
The widescreen to video transfer on this puppy was annoying as all hell. A lot of the film relies (perhaps too heavily) on long shots, and the aspect ratio for VHS was not kind to this director's choice. Sometimes the main action would be cut off and other times, there will be an overtly apparent aesthetic crop that would overwhelm the on screen narrative for purposes of silly concision. It made me relieved to live in the world of DVD, but not any bigger a fan for this movie.
In addition, Pakula made the questionable move of moving the soundtrack back along with his camera in the long shots, making high-energy scenes bottom out against leaps of contrasted volume levels.
The film itself does not delve that far, though it keeps one intrigued the whole way. You get the sense that Pakula, who would go on to Direct All the President's Men, was attempting to say something, but those pesky conventions of thriller cinema kept thwarting him as if he were drowning in his own little Hollywood conspiracy.
At the time of the film's release, America was still reeling from the duplicity of Kissingerian power politics. Political assassinations were still taking place both in Washington and across Latin America. Thankfully, we've become critical enough as a culture to question the motivations behind suspicious deaths (wall street journal, meet vincent foster) and the Johnson-era gamut of creepy intelligence "dissapearings" has slowed...at least in the homeland.
However, this film never presupposes any systematic executive level conspiracies in the course of its storyline. Despite the fact that all the targets of assassinations appear to be ambiguously "rogue" progressive senators with electoral wet dreams, the killing machine comes in the form of a mysterious mercenary corporation called Parallax. There's some pretty silly elementary psychology involved, assuming that angry anti-socialites with no apparent agenda other than ending poverty will sign up simply for the warmth of feeling "needed" and being told that there's nothing wrong with them. To recruit these barbound chair-hurlers, there's a neato multiple choice test and Clockwork orange-style voluntary film screening, which merges and flashes a series of words like "Mother" and "Country" to try to synergize an insecure upbringing, misplaced patriotism, and vitriolic fantasies of revenge.
On the corporate angle, The Parallax View may have hit the mark. When Coca Cola hires paramilitary units that assassinate union leaders in Columbia and The Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation is coordinated like a holding company that imports proto-fascist dictatorships in or around the equator, it appears that running some archangelic bloodwork from the hands of NAFTA-protected big business is the only angle that still works (discrediting Novak-style press leaks about former ambassadors's wives).
As the row of judges at the beginning and the end of the film deliberate like animatronically programmed waxworks and the 9/11 commission wraps up its investigation with many unanswered questions still brewing, films like this one and JFK ask us to keep pursuing beyond the official statements of the hegemony. Overall, this film is a 40-minute overrun of a sloppy X-Files episode, but its desire to raise your eyebrows and examine the innards of a mechanistically violent culture stem from the proper ideals, even if the answer it comes out with is; if you keep questioning, you'll probably wind up dead.
In addition, Pakula made the questionable move of moving the soundtrack back along with his camera in the long shots, making high-energy scenes bottom out against leaps of contrasted volume levels.
The film itself does not delve that far, though it keeps one intrigued the whole way. You get the sense that Pakula, who would go on to Direct All the President's Men, was attempting to say something, but those pesky conventions of thriller cinema kept thwarting him as if he were drowning in his own little Hollywood conspiracy.
At the time of the film's release, America was still reeling from the duplicity of Kissingerian power politics. Political assassinations were still taking place both in Washington and across Latin America. Thankfully, we've become critical enough as a culture to question the motivations behind suspicious deaths (wall street journal, meet vincent foster) and the Johnson-era gamut of creepy intelligence "dissapearings" has slowed...at least in the homeland.
However, this film never presupposes any systematic executive level conspiracies in the course of its storyline. Despite the fact that all the targets of assassinations appear to be ambiguously "rogue" progressive senators with electoral wet dreams, the killing machine comes in the form of a mysterious mercenary corporation called Parallax. There's some pretty silly elementary psychology involved, assuming that angry anti-socialites with no apparent agenda other than ending poverty will sign up simply for the warmth of feeling "needed" and being told that there's nothing wrong with them. To recruit these barbound chair-hurlers, there's a neato multiple choice test and Clockwork orange-style voluntary film screening, which merges and flashes a series of words like "Mother" and "Country" to try to synergize an insecure upbringing, misplaced patriotism, and vitriolic fantasies of revenge.
On the corporate angle, The Parallax View may have hit the mark. When Coca Cola hires paramilitary units that assassinate union leaders in Columbia and The Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation is coordinated like a holding company that imports proto-fascist dictatorships in or around the equator, it appears that running some archangelic bloodwork from the hands of NAFTA-protected big business is the only angle that still works (discrediting Novak-style press leaks about former ambassadors's wives).
As the row of judges at the beginning and the end of the film deliberate like animatronically programmed waxworks and the 9/11 commission wraps up its investigation with many unanswered questions still brewing, films like this one and JFK ask us to keep pursuing beyond the official statements of the hegemony. Overall, this film is a 40-minute overrun of a sloppy X-Files episode, but its desire to raise your eyebrows and examine the innards of a mechanistically violent culture stem from the proper ideals, even if the answer it comes out with is; if you keep questioning, you'll probably wind up dead.
After a string of questionable popcorn flicks (including what Anthony Lane refers to as the first Hollywood film that makes absolutely no sense), Phillip Noyce returned to his native Australia for two out-of-the-blue features in 2002. While it's hard to judge between this film and Rabbit Proof Fence, it is an honor to see him dedicating his efforts outside of tripe like the Bone Collector.
The Quiet American, originally scheduled for release around the time when certain disasters were shaking the nation that Miramax is based in. Fortunately, the delayed release came at an apt time- when Afghanistan, a country in which none of the September 11th hijackers came from, was having its civilian population decimated and little quagmire called Iraq was causing murmurs in the press. What could be a more subversive movie then than this little innocuous thriller based on 1950's Graham Greene novel in which a British Journalist declares no national identity and, despite attempts to steer clear of involvement in the conflicts arising around him, becomes forced to choose a side. The result is like some twisted Casablanca, with no moral boundary left unquestioned.
The story flies across the screen breezily with a grace rarely duplicated in films of this magnitude (and by that, i mean small films). Noyce has used his Hollywood training well to bring a mesmerizing and enticing charm to a feature that does very much with the very understated. Michael Caine excels of course and Brandon Fraser's acting screams that he, like Thomas Fowler, choose a side and either revise his moronic encino man role in a thousand kiddie flicks or go the art-house end and showcase the genuine talent he can bring to a screen.
my only real problem is that (as unfortunately tends to be the case in films where two males vie for one female) the character of Phuong is criminally underdeveloped. As an object of desire, she's easily instantly attractive and a plausible source of the two men's lust. But her physical beauty is never outshined by any specific niceties or overwhelming personality traits.
It seems that her reserved character disallows the audience from painting a full picture of the women to whom the men lose themselves in behind closed doors. However, in a story that is at least partly about intimacy and respectful affection (and not, surprisingly enough competition), this is an unforgivable sin. Not egregious enough to suggest that you should miss this film by any means, but as a general concern for the diminishing leading roles available to women in the film industry (maybe Noyce felt he could let the strong young girls of rabbit proof fence compensate for this).
The Quiet American, originally scheduled for release around the time when certain disasters were shaking the nation that Miramax is based in. Fortunately, the delayed release came at an apt time- when Afghanistan, a country in which none of the September 11th hijackers came from, was having its civilian population decimated and little quagmire called Iraq was causing murmurs in the press. What could be a more subversive movie then than this little innocuous thriller based on 1950's Graham Greene novel in which a British Journalist declares no national identity and, despite attempts to steer clear of involvement in the conflicts arising around him, becomes forced to choose a side. The result is like some twisted Casablanca, with no moral boundary left unquestioned.
The story flies across the screen breezily with a grace rarely duplicated in films of this magnitude (and by that, i mean small films). Noyce has used his Hollywood training well to bring a mesmerizing and enticing charm to a feature that does very much with the very understated. Michael Caine excels of course and Brandon Fraser's acting screams that he, like Thomas Fowler, choose a side and either revise his moronic encino man role in a thousand kiddie flicks or go the art-house end and showcase the genuine talent he can bring to a screen.
my only real problem is that (as unfortunately tends to be the case in films where two males vie for one female) the character of Phuong is criminally underdeveloped. As an object of desire, she's easily instantly attractive and a plausible source of the two men's lust. But her physical beauty is never outshined by any specific niceties or overwhelming personality traits.
It seems that her reserved character disallows the audience from painting a full picture of the women to whom the men lose themselves in behind closed doors. However, in a story that is at least partly about intimacy and respectful affection (and not, surprisingly enough competition), this is an unforgivable sin. Not egregious enough to suggest that you should miss this film by any means, but as a general concern for the diminishing leading roles available to women in the film industry (maybe Noyce felt he could let the strong young girls of rabbit proof fence compensate for this).
after seeing John Lydon break down over the senseless exploitation of sid vicious when he absolutely hit bottom in Temple's other sex pistols film "The Filth and the Fury," he must have wanted to disown this little piece of trashy lucre. the finale with its spinning headlines and the anka-fueled massacre are just the tips of the iceberg on the meaty, excessive collage film assembled here.
the star on board is mclaren, in full sleazeball form. to the unsuspecting eye, it seems like an act. it is, of course, until you realize that it's the same act he kept up in the public eye for years, while running his little pet project dry. mclaren cut his teeth on theater of the absurd and fancies his managerial life a kind of kaufman-esque performance. the only problem is that mclaren often-times does not have the consent of his lab rats, a bunch of naughty British hooligans that called themselves the sex pistols (no, mclaren did NOT come up with the name).
therefore, it's partially amusing to watch mclaren credit himself with inventing the wheel in punk rock, and partially disgusting when you approach the subject matter knowing he gave nary a shat about the well-being of his bandmates nor the political and social commentary they, especially rotten, were trying to convey. mclaren was more interested in assembling a forefather to reality TV- life as nihilistic, self-imploding art.
the movie itself is not much. there's laughs here and there, but mostly it's a bloated and deadweight companion piece to "The Filth and the Fury," mostly wound into watchability by excellent live performances and some bizarre visual interpretations of songs (some of which seem hardly composed on a punk rock budget). "who killed bambi" (also mclaren's idea with none of the band members really interested in the idea) shows up in several parts and proves to be a quite pointless endeavor.
the majority of punk rock was not known for its rock star exploits off the stage (in fact, that was kinda the point- that these werent rock stars at all). if there had to have been a band to make a boisterous film with sex and drugs and midgets and animation and disco dancing, it's probably best that it was the sex pistols. overall, this film should be mostly reserved for hardcore fans, though others may find value in the sheer novelty of the package. but do yourself a favor and see "filth" first.
the star on board is mclaren, in full sleazeball form. to the unsuspecting eye, it seems like an act. it is, of course, until you realize that it's the same act he kept up in the public eye for years, while running his little pet project dry. mclaren cut his teeth on theater of the absurd and fancies his managerial life a kind of kaufman-esque performance. the only problem is that mclaren often-times does not have the consent of his lab rats, a bunch of naughty British hooligans that called themselves the sex pistols (no, mclaren did NOT come up with the name).
therefore, it's partially amusing to watch mclaren credit himself with inventing the wheel in punk rock, and partially disgusting when you approach the subject matter knowing he gave nary a shat about the well-being of his bandmates nor the political and social commentary they, especially rotten, were trying to convey. mclaren was more interested in assembling a forefather to reality TV- life as nihilistic, self-imploding art.
the movie itself is not much. there's laughs here and there, but mostly it's a bloated and deadweight companion piece to "The Filth and the Fury," mostly wound into watchability by excellent live performances and some bizarre visual interpretations of songs (some of which seem hardly composed on a punk rock budget). "who killed bambi" (also mclaren's idea with none of the band members really interested in the idea) shows up in several parts and proves to be a quite pointless endeavor.
the majority of punk rock was not known for its rock star exploits off the stage (in fact, that was kinda the point- that these werent rock stars at all). if there had to have been a band to make a boisterous film with sex and drugs and midgets and animation and disco dancing, it's probably best that it was the sex pistols. overall, this film should be mostly reserved for hardcore fans, though others may find value in the sheer novelty of the package. but do yourself a favor and see "filth" first.