adlawn

Ran is a second-rate retelling of the Lear story, so the flaws in the plot are easiest to explain with reference to King Lear. These are some of the important differences: the subplot is dropped; Goneril and Regan are turned into effete men; an injured and vengeful daughter-in-law is introduced; the Lear-figure (Hidetora) is a warlord rather than a king; the mad Lear scene is weakened to insignificance; the sons try to kill old Hidetora by having a few thousand men fire at him as he sits in a castle; and the additional character of Tsurumaru, a boy who was blinded by Hidetora at some point in his murderous career, is introduced.

Hidetora is a smaller man than Lear; he has the stubbornness without the nobility. His abdication is also a lot sillier. Lear errs by trusting that people will treat him decently: Hidetora errs by supposing that they will forget that they hate him. This is also much more implausible. After all, there is nothing monstrous or unnatural about the daughter-in-law's attitude towards Hidetora; she just wants her back, and with reason. This diminishes her, and in spite of Kurosawa's attempt to make her a sex maniac, she is not as large or as interesting as Goneril/Regan.

Unlike Lear, Ran does not give us a sense of the insignificance of Man in nature. The "majestic" (read pompous) scenery shots don't make us feel that Man in general is helpless—these are no giants to be dwarfed by Nature, just a murderer and an injured woman and several wimps.

The strong stoical undertone of Lear is lost for obvious reasons. Samurai cannot be stoics; they are people who are trained to kill themselves whenever the going gets inglorious. It is amusing but not profound that Hidetora cannot find a dagger to kill himself with when the need arises.

So what's left of Lear? Only this: People in the world are evil. If you hurt them they'll hurt you when they can. You should be good even if you suffer (like the blind boy), because general goodness and suffering are the only way to avoid family feuds and make the world a better place. Which is all very edifying, but also very trite.

It must also be noted that because of the lingering, ponderous, "epic" pacing of this film, it goes on for twice as long as it should. What to expect: 160 minutes of intense tedium as this misshapen hulk of a film drags itself laboriously towards its predictable close.

Watching Ran is like running for your life for 2 hours and 40 minutes, but with none of the excitement.

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.

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?

I am a big fan of Herr Zog. But while Encounters provided me with an overall positive experience, it is a flawed film. First, the good news. Hearing the inorganically musical underwater vocalizations of Weddell seals through the theater's multichannel speaker system was alone worth the price of admission. One of the scientists studying the pinnipeds aptly describes their varied and otherworldly sounds as Pink Floydian. I am also pleased to have beheld extended footage of the magnificent world beneath the sea ice. It is a teeming environment whose surface we are only beginning to scratch, and I cannot blame Herzog for choosing choral background music that perhaps screams "awe" a bit too loudly; there is no danger of it cheapening the majesty of the frozen stalactites or the splendor of the sunlight dispersing through the ice-ceiling. Lastly, I'll note the humor, usually intentional, that Herzog uncharacteristically displays. His Teutonic deadpan is not his only comedic asset; he has a keen sense of the ridiculous, and ample targets among the many dubious denizens of the Antarctic.

My complaints are essentially twofold. First, the movie is disjointed. It is a hodgepodge of Herzog's encounters with various Antarctic researchers and residents; there is no apparent order or theme. This is a minor criticism, as most of the segments make for fine viewing on their own, but it would have been more satisfying if Herzog had presented a unifying thesis or two about the Light Continent (aside from the oft-repeated observation that it is populated by a fair number of "professional dreamers"). He should have at least arranged the segments in a clearly meaningful sequence. At its best, the film made no more of an impression on me than "that was beautiful," "that was cool," or "I didn't know that." Second, and more significantly, Herzog's narration is at times irritating. As someone who has studied climate change, I share his frustration and pessimism. But there is no call for saddling the film's final moments with apocalyptic platitudes (e.g., "the end of human life is assured") and a cursory reference to global warming. These sentiments are incongruous with the rest of the film, which does not substantially address environmentalism and whose most haunting scene is of a mad penguin that abandons its flock and runs inland towards distant mountains, to certain death, with a singular determination. Herzog's doomsayings, in any event, are better communicated by the satellite images of rapidly melting polar ice that we observe on a climatologist's computer screen. I know that Herzog is capable of more measured reflections on the impersonal and uncontrollable power of nature; for example, from Grizzly Man: "what haunts me is that in all the faces of all the bears that Treadwell ever filmed, I discover no kinship, no understanding, no mercy. I see only the overwhelming indifference of nature. To me, there is no such thing as a secret world of the bears. And this blank stare speaks only of a half-bored interest in food. But for Timothy Treadwell, this bear was a friend, a savior." In Encounters, Herzog superficially and self-indulgently overstates his case. I'm looking forward to his next film.

This charming film worked its magic on me many a time when I was a little kid who understood neither its context nor its subtext. At the time I hadn't even heard of The Lord of the Rings, and I hadn't recognized the archetypal nature of Tolkein's universe. The movie was my first brush with elves, dwarfs, goblins, hobbits, and Gollum. I was fascinated. I could sense that The Hobbit was part of something larger, and there was something captivating about its tone from the opening narration.

Recently I revisited the film, and let's just say that I saw it through new eyes. And rather than finding that it merely held up well, I came to appreciate it even more and on multiple levels. I don't care if it abridged or even modified Tolkein's epic; if it's good, it's good. (Consider it "inspired by" the book if you must.) Here's why I give it 9 stars:

1. The voice acting. These are some of the best voices I've heard in English-language animation. It turns out that a few of them are heavy hitters. To me, the standouts are: Gandalf (John Huston), noble, authoritative, and wise; Bilbo (Orson Bean), mellow, gracious, and (more on this later) smooth; and Gollum (Brother Theodore), tortured, twisted, and temperamental. Not a bad use of star power.

2. The fundamental lightheartedness. The film is, of course, meant to appeal primarily to children, and it's a good example of how this can be done without diminishing palatability to adults. Essentially, rather than sacrificing meaningful content, Rankin and Bass only gloss over the _presentation_ of mature elements (danger, fear, violence). For example, when Bilbo defeats the giant spiders, the damage from his dagger thrusts is symbolized by images of the spiders' heads spinning. When he hesitates on the way towards confronting Smaug, we hear of his doubts, but his inner monologue is given a calm and reasonable voice. We know he's thinking (not for the first time on this quest), "I may very well be walking to my death," but why scare the kids by making such realities palpable? Another benefit of the absence of truly dark moments in the film is that the audience is always primed for humor. This comes in handy since the movie has numerous amusing or funny elements, intentional or otherwise. (Try thinking of Gandalf as a benevolent questmaster, for instance. The film lends itself to this "reading" because of his teacherly demeanor and conveniently timed appearances, departures, and revelations -- it's as if he's trying to set the ideal difficulty level for the little guys, or for a good story.) Overall, The Hobbit is a very fun movie. I consider it more of a comedy than anything else.

3. The animation. (Or should I say anime, as it was done in Japan?) While of course dated, it's more quaint than outmoded. There's something charmingly British about it. Maybe the production team based the film's landscapes and character designs on Tolkein's own illustrations. I wouldn't be surprised.

4. The cinematography. The Hobbit shines in this department, too. Two good examples come to mind. First, consider the opening credits. In many movies these are shown at the beginning, superimposed on landscape shots and the like so as not to distract viewers from anything too important. Here Rankin and Bass present the opening credits the night after the first scene, in which Bilbo is enlisted by Gandalf and the dwarfs. The credits provide a transition from night to day and are accompanied by images of Bilbo's uneasy dreams and by the uplifting theme song. The dream sequence is beautifully "shot," and the contrast between it and the inspirational lyrics artfully expresses Bilbo's conflicted attitude towards suddenly leaving his life behind for the promise and peril of adventure. Second, there's the famous riddle scene, in which Bilbo and Gollum try to stump each other. After a couple of exchanges, the camera zooms out and pans around the cavern, and a haunting choral interlude sings one of the riddles and conveys the passage of a considerable amount of time. Then the scene shifts back to the adversaries and their final confrontation.

5. Bilbo Baggins. (Best porn name ever.) Much of the amusement I derive from the film is due to its portrayal of this little big man. In short, he's a badass, and I don't just mean for a hobbit. Despite getting pushed around by the condescending king of the dwarfs, Bilbo takes it in stride and calmly saves them on many an occasion. Like James Bond he confounds his enemies by never losing his cool, and he's got a British accent. Unlike James Bond his enemies include goblins, giant spiders, and a dragon, in addition to crazy Russians (i.e., the hard-drinking and xenophobic wood elves, who have Russianesque accents to boot). One of his best moments is when, after playing along with the riddle game for quite some time, he asks Gollum "what have I got in my pocket?" and pretends to be taken aback when Gollum objects. Bilbo ironically invokes the rules, which are stacked against him but say nothing about what constitutes a legitimate riddle. The name's Baggins. Bilbo Baggins.

6. The songs. These work wonders for the film's tone. Maury Laws wrote some great melodies. Glenn Yarbrough has an ideal voice for the contemplative folk ballads, and various choirs are used to good effect, particularly in the goblin battle chants. Notably, most of the lyrics come directly from poems and songs that Tolkein included in the novel.

I think I've spilled enough ink about a cartoon that you may vaguely remember, if at all, as a cheesy adaptation of a vastly superior book. But hey, I'm trying to convince you otherwise. If you're into this sort of thing, The Hobbit is worth (re)visiting.