nsouthern-25687
Joined May 2016
Welcome to the new profile
We're still working on updating some profile features. To see the badges, ratings breakdowns, and polls for this profile, please go to the previous version.
Reviews9
nsouthern-25687's rating
I would echo absolutely every single statement made by the previous IMDB reviewer of this short documentary.
Gimmicky, semiotically fragmented, and barely coherent, this is less a portrait of the legendary saxophonist Ben Webster than an oddball conceptual art piece that intercuts well shot b&w footage of Webster at home in Amsterdam with strange cutaways that have only a tenuous connection to the subject's music. Components include a trip to a saxophone factory and another jaunt to an Amsterdam zoo where we watch Webster feed monkeys. Any snatches that we get of Webster performing are either placed out of sync with the soundtrack, interrupted with smash cuts to unrelated action, or - in one case, laden with the dissonant noise of machinery from said factory. I love Webster without reservation - as a musician and a personality - but found this so called documentary execrable and obnoxious, and an insult to his legacy. I cannot imagine who on earth would ever want or need to see this.
Footnote: at the same time that I saw this, I also happened to acquire the Webster episode of Jazz 625, a concert series from British television. The Webster installment features 35 exhilarating minutes of Ben live performance with a trio, and for one number, duetting with a special guest, fellow saxophonist Ronnie Scott. If you're interested in Webster, see that small gem of a program. Not this garbage.
Gimmicky, semiotically fragmented, and barely coherent, this is less a portrait of the legendary saxophonist Ben Webster than an oddball conceptual art piece that intercuts well shot b&w footage of Webster at home in Amsterdam with strange cutaways that have only a tenuous connection to the subject's music. Components include a trip to a saxophone factory and another jaunt to an Amsterdam zoo where we watch Webster feed monkeys. Any snatches that we get of Webster performing are either placed out of sync with the soundtrack, interrupted with smash cuts to unrelated action, or - in one case, laden with the dissonant noise of machinery from said factory. I love Webster without reservation - as a musician and a personality - but found this so called documentary execrable and obnoxious, and an insult to his legacy. I cannot imagine who on earth would ever want or need to see this.
Footnote: at the same time that I saw this, I also happened to acquire the Webster episode of Jazz 625, a concert series from British television. The Webster installment features 35 exhilarating minutes of Ben live performance with a trio, and for one number, duetting with a special guest, fellow saxophonist Ronnie Scott. If you're interested in Webster, see that small gem of a program. Not this garbage.
This broad sex farce fell through the cracks in late 2001, despite an outstanding pedigree; it was produced by the great Alain Sarde (The Pianist, Vera Drake), helmed by the gifted John McNaughton (Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, Mad Dog and Glory), and scored by George Clinton, and sports a first-rate cast including James Spader, Bill Murray, Melora Walters and Catherine O'Hara. That sounds like a surefire commercial home run, but the movie never received a proper U. S. theatrical release.
Though it isn't difficult to see why French producers initially greenlit the project, it's also likely that the wall-to-wall explicit dialogue and subject matter may have scared off U. S. distribs. The movie is so gleefully raunchy and lewd that it feels like a relic of the 70s - it has the same open-armed embrace of freewheeling sexuality that comedies like John Byrum's Inserts and Bertrand Blier's Calmos did - lots of droll talk about sexual anatomy and orgasms and technique.
For those viewers willing to run with this, Speaking has a promising setup and numerous belly laughs during its first 70 minutes or so, and a couple of plum performances - one by Spader, as a harried, sexually starved therapist, another by Murray as a sleazy, toupé-wearing attorney - the kind of scuzzbucket who might later specialize in defending Me Too predators. These two are a joy to watch. Walters also does first-rate work as a sweet but naive housewife, swimming way out of her depth with these sharks. And some of the same McNaughton directorial gifts that were on display in Henry and Mad Dog and Glory manifest here - particularly his sneaky and subtle way of visually establishing character. Another bonus: his clever approach to filming Spader and Walters's first tryst, which includes witty smash cuts to screaming African masks at the point of climax.
Initially, we may feel we're in for a home run with this picture. But after the first hour, the material begins to lose steam. Two recurring jokes - one involving a couple of cutesy poo euphemisms for genitalia and another about the Spader character's masterful sexual technique - may earn a smile the first time, but get repeated ad infinitum. On top of this, none of the final narrative reversals work at all. The third act feels as if it may have been cut, given a hastily introduced and abandoned thread about the sexual commercial exploitation of Walters's character that leaves a rancid taste in our mouths.
I wouldn't necessarily discourage anyone from seeing this - the film isn't a total wash, and it has its pleasures. But it falls short of the greatness of Henry and Mad Dog and eventually wears out its welcome.
Though it isn't difficult to see why French producers initially greenlit the project, it's also likely that the wall-to-wall explicit dialogue and subject matter may have scared off U. S. distribs. The movie is so gleefully raunchy and lewd that it feels like a relic of the 70s - it has the same open-armed embrace of freewheeling sexuality that comedies like John Byrum's Inserts and Bertrand Blier's Calmos did - lots of droll talk about sexual anatomy and orgasms and technique.
For those viewers willing to run with this, Speaking has a promising setup and numerous belly laughs during its first 70 minutes or so, and a couple of plum performances - one by Spader, as a harried, sexually starved therapist, another by Murray as a sleazy, toupé-wearing attorney - the kind of scuzzbucket who might later specialize in defending Me Too predators. These two are a joy to watch. Walters also does first-rate work as a sweet but naive housewife, swimming way out of her depth with these sharks. And some of the same McNaughton directorial gifts that were on display in Henry and Mad Dog and Glory manifest here - particularly his sneaky and subtle way of visually establishing character. Another bonus: his clever approach to filming Spader and Walters's first tryst, which includes witty smash cuts to screaming African masks at the point of climax.
Initially, we may feel we're in for a home run with this picture. But after the first hour, the material begins to lose steam. Two recurring jokes - one involving a couple of cutesy poo euphemisms for genitalia and another about the Spader character's masterful sexual technique - may earn a smile the first time, but get repeated ad infinitum. On top of this, none of the final narrative reversals work at all. The third act feels as if it may have been cut, given a hastily introduced and abandoned thread about the sexual commercial exploitation of Walters's character that leaves a rancid taste in our mouths.
I wouldn't necessarily discourage anyone from seeing this - the film isn't a total wash, and it has its pleasures. But it falls short of the greatness of Henry and Mad Dog and eventually wears out its welcome.
