adlawn
Joined Apr 2004
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adlawn's rating
Three points of note:
1. The original (in both senses) soundtrack. Barry Egan (Sandler) has psychological problems. He's prone to paroxysms of destructive rage, sparked primarily by his seven domineering and dysfunctional sisters. But his issues are more complex than anger management. In my lay opinion, he seems to be too close to the bad end of the autistic spectrum: he often appears oblivious to, and overwhelmed by, everyday stimuli (such as meeting new people, especially women); he's emotionally and socially stunted (but in a way distinct from the typical Sandlerian manchild); and verbal communication isn't exactly his strong suit (except when intimidation is called for). So what has this got to do with the soundtrack? Well, it struck me that the percussive, layered, and sometimes cacophonous music that plays when we see things from Barry's perspective is meant to convey the blooming, buzzing confusion that he's experiencing. It's as if we can hear his inner chaos. At any rate, these conspicuous and distinctive tracks help bring atmosphere to the foreground of the film, which is a plus, because the story itself is nothing special; the magic of this film is in the execution, the details, the tone.
2. The cinematography. I am no expert, but Anderson clearly uses some cool and unusual shots and lenses. He also intersperses some colorful abstract art by frequent collaborator Jeremy Blake (R.I.P.). You'll have to see for yourself.
3. The descent into fantasy. The film starts off quirky but fundamentally realistic. Ayn Rand didn't write the dialogue, and no one makes a dwarf-tossing joke in the middle of a pitched battle over the moral fate of the world -- everyone acts like a real person, with real emotions, however eccentric. But once the love story takes off -- literally, to Hawaii -- no amount of chemistry can make up for the fact that we have no idea what Lena Leonard (Watson) sees in Barry. She's stable, successful, and has a British accent; he's crazy, strapped for cash (he's counting on a milking an overgenerous frequent flyer miles promotion -- based on a true story), and sounds like Adam Sandler. Yet she's really into him. Maybe this is just Anderson situating himself in the romantic comedy section (love at first sight), but still, there should be something, however implausible, behind the romance if he wants the audience to care. (Interestingly, maybe he doesn't: maybe he was that committed to style over substance; maybe he wanted to focus exclusively on Barry's emotions; maybe this was his way of satirizing the genre.) At any rate, viewers are free to form their own understandings of characters' motivations.
1. The original (in both senses) soundtrack. Barry Egan (Sandler) has psychological problems. He's prone to paroxysms of destructive rage, sparked primarily by his seven domineering and dysfunctional sisters. But his issues are more complex than anger management. In my lay opinion, he seems to be too close to the bad end of the autistic spectrum: he often appears oblivious to, and overwhelmed by, everyday stimuli (such as meeting new people, especially women); he's emotionally and socially stunted (but in a way distinct from the typical Sandlerian manchild); and verbal communication isn't exactly his strong suit (except when intimidation is called for). So what has this got to do with the soundtrack? Well, it struck me that the percussive, layered, and sometimes cacophonous music that plays when we see things from Barry's perspective is meant to convey the blooming, buzzing confusion that he's experiencing. It's as if we can hear his inner chaos. At any rate, these conspicuous and distinctive tracks help bring atmosphere to the foreground of the film, which is a plus, because the story itself is nothing special; the magic of this film is in the execution, the details, the tone.
2. The cinematography. I am no expert, but Anderson clearly uses some cool and unusual shots and lenses. He also intersperses some colorful abstract art by frequent collaborator Jeremy Blake (R.I.P.). You'll have to see for yourself.
3. The descent into fantasy. The film starts off quirky but fundamentally realistic. Ayn Rand didn't write the dialogue, and no one makes a dwarf-tossing joke in the middle of a pitched battle over the moral fate of the world -- everyone acts like a real person, with real emotions, however eccentric. But once the love story takes off -- literally, to Hawaii -- no amount of chemistry can make up for the fact that we have no idea what Lena Leonard (Watson) sees in Barry. She's stable, successful, and has a British accent; he's crazy, strapped for cash (he's counting on a milking an overgenerous frequent flyer miles promotion -- based on a true story), and sounds like Adam Sandler. Yet she's really into him. Maybe this is just Anderson situating himself in the romantic comedy section (love at first sight), but still, there should be something, however implausible, behind the romance if he wants the audience to care. (Interestingly, maybe he doesn't: maybe he was that committed to style over substance; maybe he wanted to focus exclusively on Barry's emotions; maybe this was his way of satirizing the genre.) At any rate, viewers are free to form their own understandings of characters' motivations.
Here's what stood out to me:
1. The music. On the one hand, duh. On the other, have you actually listened to "On the Beautiful Blue Danube" recently? It's 10+ minutes of constant enjoyment -- every melody is beautiful. Of course, another Strauss also has his moments. What most intrigued me, though, were the selections by György Ligeti. I don't usually appreciate atonal or unmelodic pieces, but the "monolith theme" is an awesome blend of the haunting, intense, and otherworldly. Notably, Kubrick commissioned a score by Alex North but then decided to use the classical recordings he had been playing during production -- without telling North.
2. The new bone. At the end of "The Dawn of Man" chapter, the triumphant tool-user throws his tapir bone (which he just used to beat the life out of a rival hominid) into the air, and the scene artfully cuts from the bone to its modern counterpart: a white, cylindrical nuclear device orbiting the earth. That's deep. Or maybe I'm just a sucker for a good transition.
3. The visual realism. The space exploration special effects hold up remarkably well considering that the film turns 40(!) this year. Not only do they look realistic, they also illustrate Kubrick's attention to procedural detail. He uses extended shots of relatively mundane activities in order to give us a sense of what it's like in the vacuum and how exactly people get things done.
4. The computer. HAL's got a great voice (he's going to sing "Fitter Happier" in my remake). And his lines aren't half-bad, either. If only his shipmates weren't so wooden and...mechanical. (Was Kubrick trying to say something about astronauts -- that the government preferred unimaginative military men to a fault?) If I were on board, I'd've picked his brain nonstop. A conscious computer would never get old. Forget chess -- imagine having a conversation about philosophy, or anything else for that matter. What would you talk about?
5. The end. What's the deal? The protracted light show screams "we've got to do something with all these FX shots," especially when the colored landscapes kick in after what I thought would be the climax (when everything appears to be culminating in a burst of white light). And then there's the bizarre room sequence. I won't spoil it; I'll just speculate: is this how the aliens wanted Dave to perceive his transformation? Or is it Kubrick reminding us that 2001 is an art film, infinitely beyond trashy sci-fi?
1. The music. On the one hand, duh. On the other, have you actually listened to "On the Beautiful Blue Danube" recently? It's 10+ minutes of constant enjoyment -- every melody is beautiful. Of course, another Strauss also has his moments. What most intrigued me, though, were the selections by György Ligeti. I don't usually appreciate atonal or unmelodic pieces, but the "monolith theme" is an awesome blend of the haunting, intense, and otherworldly. Notably, Kubrick commissioned a score by Alex North but then decided to use the classical recordings he had been playing during production -- without telling North.
2. The new bone. At the end of "The Dawn of Man" chapter, the triumphant tool-user throws his tapir bone (which he just used to beat the life out of a rival hominid) into the air, and the scene artfully cuts from the bone to its modern counterpart: a white, cylindrical nuclear device orbiting the earth. That's deep. Or maybe I'm just a sucker for a good transition.
3. The visual realism. The space exploration special effects hold up remarkably well considering that the film turns 40(!) this year. Not only do they look realistic, they also illustrate Kubrick's attention to procedural detail. He uses extended shots of relatively mundane activities in order to give us a sense of what it's like in the vacuum and how exactly people get things done.
4. The computer. HAL's got a great voice (he's going to sing "Fitter Happier" in my remake). And his lines aren't half-bad, either. If only his shipmates weren't so wooden and...mechanical. (Was Kubrick trying to say something about astronauts -- that the government preferred unimaginative military men to a fault?) If I were on board, I'd've picked his brain nonstop. A conscious computer would never get old. Forget chess -- imagine having a conversation about philosophy, or anything else for that matter. What would you talk about?
5. The end. What's the deal? The protracted light show screams "we've got to do something with all these FX shots," especially when the colored landscapes kick in after what I thought would be the climax (when everything appears to be culminating in a burst of white light). And then there's the bizarre room sequence. I won't spoil it; I'll just speculate: is this how the aliens wanted Dave to perceive his transformation? Or is it Kubrick reminding us that 2001 is an art film, infinitely beyond trashy sci-fi?