theultimatehuman
Joined Dec 2001
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Reviews8
theultimatehuman's rating
I just finished this, having been drawn due to my love of Herzog's films, particularly the documentaries.
Clearly Linas, the maker of Walking to Werner, sees his film as a companion piece to Herzog's films, and tells us that he sees in his own footage something of the 'ecstatic truth' that he has seen in Herzog's films.
Well I don't see it. Rather, I think this elongated, narcissistic voyage of self-discovery bears some comparison with the work of Ross McElwee, specifically the rambling, discursive 'Sherman's March', and that is not a flattering comparison at all. Considering the breadth of history, geography, autobiography and humanity on display in McElwee's film, it is quite bewildering to imagine how Linas has managed to edit his film to feature length.
Regarding Herzog's films, the crucial difference is that Herzog doesn't make films about himself, but rather appears as a guide or commentator on the sidelines of films with a clearly delineated centre. Perhaps 'La Soufriere' contains some scenes of Herzog's blatant 'heroism', but the situation is so imminently perilous that it can hardly be helped. It certainly cannot be compared with a two month stroll down some of America's most scenic highways. When Linas talks about the dangers of his trip, and says he thinks about his death every day, it is a major misjudgment of audience sympathy.
Throughout the film, Linas appears as a self-conscious, preening egotist, completely lacking in any revelations, or insight, yet continuously placing himself as the central focus of the film. While he blatantly attempts to portray himself as a Herzogian hero doing battle with the natural world, the only hazards he appears to encounter are some light blistering and an occasional requirement to rough it in a tent. When he announces quite mildly that in coming to LA, he has 'found himself', he offers no explanation of what his 'sharper perspective' might be.
It is, in short, a con trick. Linas hasn't the intellectual rigor, or the honesty, or the balls to be a Herzog, and he doesn't have the genuine manic charisma to be a Timothy Treadwell or a Fitzcarraldo. What he offers instead is a kind of safe, slightly embarrassing student version, attempting to depict himself and his journey as interesting and extreme, but constantly happening across people far more interesting and extreme than himself wherever he goes.
It is these people that make the film bearable from beginning to end. When the emphasis shifts away from himself, Linas clearly does have a gift for developing an instant rapor with some unusual characters, but in his faux blankness as he walks away from the abused prostitute desperately trying to look beatific and pull focus back onto himself, I felt that the truth of Linas' film was not ecstatic, but actually quite self-absorbed and ugly.
Clearly Linas, the maker of Walking to Werner, sees his film as a companion piece to Herzog's films, and tells us that he sees in his own footage something of the 'ecstatic truth' that he has seen in Herzog's films.
Well I don't see it. Rather, I think this elongated, narcissistic voyage of self-discovery bears some comparison with the work of Ross McElwee, specifically the rambling, discursive 'Sherman's March', and that is not a flattering comparison at all. Considering the breadth of history, geography, autobiography and humanity on display in McElwee's film, it is quite bewildering to imagine how Linas has managed to edit his film to feature length.
Regarding Herzog's films, the crucial difference is that Herzog doesn't make films about himself, but rather appears as a guide or commentator on the sidelines of films with a clearly delineated centre. Perhaps 'La Soufriere' contains some scenes of Herzog's blatant 'heroism', but the situation is so imminently perilous that it can hardly be helped. It certainly cannot be compared with a two month stroll down some of America's most scenic highways. When Linas talks about the dangers of his trip, and says he thinks about his death every day, it is a major misjudgment of audience sympathy.
Throughout the film, Linas appears as a self-conscious, preening egotist, completely lacking in any revelations, or insight, yet continuously placing himself as the central focus of the film. While he blatantly attempts to portray himself as a Herzogian hero doing battle with the natural world, the only hazards he appears to encounter are some light blistering and an occasional requirement to rough it in a tent. When he announces quite mildly that in coming to LA, he has 'found himself', he offers no explanation of what his 'sharper perspective' might be.
It is, in short, a con trick. Linas hasn't the intellectual rigor, or the honesty, or the balls to be a Herzog, and he doesn't have the genuine manic charisma to be a Timothy Treadwell or a Fitzcarraldo. What he offers instead is a kind of safe, slightly embarrassing student version, attempting to depict himself and his journey as interesting and extreme, but constantly happening across people far more interesting and extreme than himself wherever he goes.
It is these people that make the film bearable from beginning to end. When the emphasis shifts away from himself, Linas clearly does have a gift for developing an instant rapor with some unusual characters, but in his faux blankness as he walks away from the abused prostitute desperately trying to look beatific and pull focus back onto himself, I felt that the truth of Linas' film was not ecstatic, but actually quite self-absorbed and ugly.
Hmm....I couldn't help feeling that the people responsible for 'Brick' think (quite absurdly) that they have made a masterpiece. Some of the painfully self-conscious dialogue was almost rendered inaudible for the sound of the writer-director patting himself on the back. His misplaced desire to create a quirky 'cult' film was palpable throughout.
Yet his time wasn't entirely wasted. Several early scenes display a bold inventiveness in terms of both character and narrative which promise great things ahead. Regrettably, the director quickly destroys this initial goodwill by suffocating any spontaneity in the most tedious and stylised plot imaginable. I realise that the baroque, clandestine narrative is all part of The Big Joke About Film Noir that the film trades in, but I couldn't help feeling that the film-maker should have hung his flamboyant stylistic wares on a far simpler storyline. As it was, far too much emphasis was placed on the intricacies of a ridiculous and largely irrelevant plot. The great films noir of the 1940s may have been convoluted, but never at the expense of great characters and great scenes. Here, the characters and scenes struggle to engage the audience. Here, the plot is everything and, despite the extreme stylisation of dialogue and a terrific central lead performance, the film ultimately falls flat because of it.
Too little time is spent developing the secondary characters, especially the leading lady, the femme fatale Laura. Her role is so ill-defined and dull, (and the actress's performance so inanimate) that a torpedo of ennui hits the film every time she comes on screen. Fortunately, she isn't on for long and the whole enterprise just about stays afloat for the running time.
Overall, the film-maker shows a great deal of promise. There are some striking moments of violence and despite the faint whiff of plagiarism (David Lynch could bring a case), these scenes achieve an air of real terror and suspense.
Regarding the hugely self-conscious style, it's love it or hate it. On one hand, it's an excruciatingly embarrassing pose, but if you overcome that, there are some pleasures to be had, despite some serious misjudgments by the writer/director.
Comparisons have been made to Tarantino and Richard Kelly and neither are entirely fair. Brick's director has his own voice and his own sensibility, but in comparison with the assurance of 'Resevoir Dogs' or 'Donnie Darko', 'Brick' has to be considered a mediocre debut. I look forward to his sophomore effort.
Yet his time wasn't entirely wasted. Several early scenes display a bold inventiveness in terms of both character and narrative which promise great things ahead. Regrettably, the director quickly destroys this initial goodwill by suffocating any spontaneity in the most tedious and stylised plot imaginable. I realise that the baroque, clandestine narrative is all part of The Big Joke About Film Noir that the film trades in, but I couldn't help feeling that the film-maker should have hung his flamboyant stylistic wares on a far simpler storyline. As it was, far too much emphasis was placed on the intricacies of a ridiculous and largely irrelevant plot. The great films noir of the 1940s may have been convoluted, but never at the expense of great characters and great scenes. Here, the characters and scenes struggle to engage the audience. Here, the plot is everything and, despite the extreme stylisation of dialogue and a terrific central lead performance, the film ultimately falls flat because of it.
Too little time is spent developing the secondary characters, especially the leading lady, the femme fatale Laura. Her role is so ill-defined and dull, (and the actress's performance so inanimate) that a torpedo of ennui hits the film every time she comes on screen. Fortunately, she isn't on for long and the whole enterprise just about stays afloat for the running time.
Overall, the film-maker shows a great deal of promise. There are some striking moments of violence and despite the faint whiff of plagiarism (David Lynch could bring a case), these scenes achieve an air of real terror and suspense.
Regarding the hugely self-conscious style, it's love it or hate it. On one hand, it's an excruciatingly embarrassing pose, but if you overcome that, there are some pleasures to be had, despite some serious misjudgments by the writer/director.
Comparisons have been made to Tarantino and Richard Kelly and neither are entirely fair. Brick's director has his own voice and his own sensibility, but in comparison with the assurance of 'Resevoir Dogs' or 'Donnie Darko', 'Brick' has to be considered a mediocre debut. I look forward to his sophomore effort.
The idea that CRASH got awarded BEST PICTURE at the Oscars makes me physically sick. A clear case of the Los-Angeles-based members of the academy assuaging their racist guilt by voting for a film that purported to deal seriously with race issues (although it was a tawdry, half baked turkey directed by a patronizing honky in metaphoric black-face) in the year that America's race divide has been horribly exposed by the grim events in New Orleans.
It's a crime that the real moral and aesthetic hire-wire act of ''Brokeback Mountain' had to suffer the ignominy of being bested by that far inferior, far shallower film and its self-indulgent crocodile tears.
Paul Haggis is an insulated millionaire TV writer and a fraud, pasting third-hand ideas together with cliché and coincidence and baking the inedible treacly pie in an emetic marinade of overblown music and sentimentality.
Shame on him. Shame on the Academy.
It's a crime that the real moral and aesthetic hire-wire act of ''Brokeback Mountain' had to suffer the ignominy of being bested by that far inferior, far shallower film and its self-indulgent crocodile tears.
Paul Haggis is an insulated millionaire TV writer and a fraud, pasting third-hand ideas together with cliché and coincidence and baking the inedible treacly pie in an emetic marinade of overblown music and sentimentality.
Shame on him. Shame on the Academy.