Regretful Film Reviews

Thoughts on Before Sunrise (1995) (before seeing the sequel)

2004-10-28T14:10:00.000+02:00

This is not a regretful review per se. In fact, this is less a review than a well-intentioned plot analysis. Nothing cynical going on here -- can you believe it? But do not assume right away that that means I am a great fan of this film -- you know, one of those persons who got into the cult following of Richard Linklater's little hit.

Why do they say that films have "cult followings"? Granted it is technial jargon. Just like "sleeper", which they also say about movies (sometimes the same ones). What they do not realise is that most persons probably do not know what these industry terms mean. Persons like me, for instance, who nevertheless have been devouring film reviews since sometime in the 1970s. But they use these terms anyway, as if it were standard currency. I can guess, from the usage, that a film with a "cult following" did not have a big audience at its opening, but that there is a select group of persons who like the movie a lot, and watch it repeatedly. The group develops a strong loyalty to the director or writer or whoever, and with word of mouth the popularity slowly grows. Unfortunately, this usually happens after it is taken out of the box office.

I still cannot figure out, even going on usage, what exactly a "sleeper" is. (Here is some trivia, which you can safely skip: I remember that one of the first ever movies to be rated PG-13 was Red Dawn. TV Guide constantly referred to it as a "star-spangled sleeper".)

[Searching...]

Okay, there was the Woody Allen flick by the name Sleeper in 1973. Did it lend its name to a genre?

[not satisfied; searching again...]

Okay, I think this is the best we are going to get from now: a two-buck answer from Google.

Back to the proverbial "cult following". I really hope the expression is proverbial. I don't know about you, but where I came from, a cult or a follower thereof was not such an admirable thing. Remember David Koresh? (In his own words.) Remember Jonestown? I saw a film about that mass suicide when I was a child, and it gave me the heebie-jeebies. (But later on, I saw an episode of the A-Team in which they rescued several members and wreaked havoc on the cult, so I felt much better.)

I am willing to guess that in the case of a movie or a director that has a cult following, it is just a metaphor. A hip metaphor, used by those of us who can get past any suspicion of religious charlatanism, brainwashing, and congregating in filthy conditions to perform rituals. Just as James Lileks can speak of "Mac fanatic cultists who slosh with [Steve] Jobs’ Kool-Aid" (see Jonestown link, supra), we can speak about a film as if it its fans are living in squalor and abusing children. But in reality we are just talking about persons who really like a film, and want to see it many times, learn all about it, and share the experience with their friends. The Shawshank Redemption was such a film. Death Becomes Her was one. The original Matrix was such a film. Whit Stillman has a cult following. Kevin Smith has one. It's all good, clean fun (The Rocky Horror Picture Show notwithstanding).

I mentioned Whit Stillman on purpose. Remember him? Maybe not. Ever see Metropolitan (1990)? Doubt it. Barcelona (1994)? More likely, but still doubtful. Last Days of Disco (1998)? More likely still. But if you did see it, you may have been disappointed if you had not been prepared already set up by the previous two. Stillman has the gift of writing quirky and almost thoroughly unrealistic dialogue. That's the funny part, you see: seemingly shallow people are caught up in their mundane situations, but then they start to talk about problems that are on their mind. And then you realise that what they are discussing goes far beyond the bounds of barroom chatter. Is it more virtuous to choose only to date unattractive women? Are you shaving in the right direction? Barcelona will not give you the answers, but it will give you a much better idea of the question than you ever thought of before.

Stick with me, I am going somewhere with this.

The television series Northern Exposure was in the same genre. It ran from 1990 to 1995, which you may notice encompasses the same time period as Stillman's first two films. This programme championed the kind of banter that I just described. It was a great time. I loved this stuff. You know, if Northern Exposure had had a cult, I probably would have been an easy inductee. Would have eaten the whale blubber and everything.

I think the genre petered out by the time Whitman's last film was released, which is why it has more variety in it (e.g., disco dancing). The wretched "comedy" Denial was also released in 1998, with Jonathan Silverman and Jason Alexander trying to carry the torch. Well, that movie signaled to me that the party was over.

Back to the subject at hand, which is Before Sunrise. The year was 1995, which is why it was possible for a film to be mostly this scattered kind of witty and off-kilter romantic dialogue, plus scenery.

Because it looked sappy, and because I did not like the way Ethan Hawke had scruffified, I did not see it when it was first released, although I was tempted to because of the European theme, and mildly because of the plot. It did not help that Julie Delpy had previously been the cruel wife in Trois Couleurs: Blanc, or that she had been the Aryan Hitler-worshipping girl who cruelly dumped her Jewish boyfriend in Europa, Europa. I was incapable of aesthetic distance back then, so I did not like her. (And I may not be capable of it still: when my family doctor told me, in the course of a checkup, that I phycially reminded him of Ethan Hawke in Gattaca, I was instantly a fan of Mr. Scruffy.)

This year the sequel, Before Sunset, was released. It follows the same pattern, except that now the characters are ten years older and are meeting again for the first time in Paris.

Say no more. I am there the first day it is available.

On DVD, that is. (There is a little hitch that is preventing me from going to theatres at the moment, but we won't go into that now.)

So I wanted to brush up on the story. And now I stand corrected. Watching Before Sunrise is a moment well spent. It is not too sappy. The dialogue is not cumbersome, and even smacks of realism.

But I am glad that I waited several years to see the film. Why?

Because by now, this kind of experience has happened to me, with variations, a few times already.

Had I seen Before Sunrise in 1995, being young and impressionable, I may have projected that somewhat unrealistic scenario on my own travels and potential meeting of women. I may have measured my own experience with that one.

Now, the story tugs on my heartstrings in a way that is almost embarrassing. I don't want to be manipulated by Hollywood, but geez! The memories! The feelings! When Céline and Jesse are obliged to leave each other at the end, I can honestly say, "I know just how that feels". In fact, I don't need to think it; my heart informs me immediately. Mais où sont les neiges d'antan ?!

And this, I suspect, is how the film managed to hook viewers, who fell into two categories:

those who thought, "Wow, how romantic! I hope I can encounter such a situation someday", and

those who thought, "That feels just like it felt when I met X, and we got to know each other over the course of Y, and then..."

Of course, it never happened like exactly like that, because this is fiction. One cannot make a film about this and be entirely documentary-style. Or at least, Linklater can not. If you want to know about an author's concept of poetics, read the preface. In this case, Linklater announced his principles at the beginning, with Jesse's idea for a cable-access show, comprised of 365 episodes, each one a "24-hour document of real time" following one person's life. The idea is scoffed at and dismissed.

The dialogue is not even so spectacular -- far too many "um"s and "y'know"s. But I guess that is noise that adds to the realism. They keep changing topics, running the gammut of the factual and the emotional.

They kiss way too prematurely. And on the other hand, they really never tell each other so much about their "normal" lives: where they are going with their life plans, for example, and whether those plans are going to be called into question now that they found this... how does one put it?... connexion.

"We share some sort of connexion" is a line that should be retired by now. I have heard it used too many times by too many guys on the girls they are trying to woo, and I know what they mean when they say it. Uh, huh, I think. (Because I am a guy who has found myself, a few times, lucky enough to keep a girl's attention for more than a few moments, and who needs a plausible reason to keep it going.) I wish Jesse and Céline had figured out what that means. They both seem bright, but they are too giddy with the process of discovering another person to stay on topic.

I wish, for once, that they had tried to find a big answer to a big question. The reincarnation problem that Jesse has, for example. (I have an answer to that one, by the way. But then, my deck is stacked because I have a few centuries of mystical teachings from my own religion. And yes, Judaism believes in reincarnation, heavily.)

Watching this film reminded me of two diametrically opposed kinds of matchmaking, which sort-of meet each other at the extremes. I have participated in both:

Two perfect strangers meet, start a random conversation, hit it off, find they have that "connexion", realise that this moment holds significant import and, depending on their circumstances, either (a) become bosom buddies for life, or (b) are ripped apart, and feel their hearts detaching from their chest (rather like that guy in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom).
Two perfect strangers meet, because they have been set up by an intermediary, spent a couple of hours together, never touch, keep the conversation on track, and try to figure out if they should (a) marry each other, or (b) part ways and never see one another again.

Officially, I am supposed to tell you that the latter method is the better, and that it is, in fact, the most preferable of all possible ways of dating.

The former is risky, but it has something going for it, y'know.

Kadosh (1999)

2004-10-13T09:30:00.000+02:00

This posting has a risk of being as long, confusing, and lifeless as its subject, but I will try to keep it to the point. Unlike the patience demanded of you in this movie, your patience in reading this posting will pay off.

I am a patient man. If a film about Orthodox Jews living in downtown Jerusalem hits Cannes, I will eventually see it when the right moment presents itself, even if I have to keep a mental post-it note for five years. Even though I was living in France at the time and could just go to the cinema when the film was released, to see what the beaux arts community was giddy about, I am glad I waited till now. I would not have known as much about what I was watching as I do now.

I'm also a pretty tolerant man. Tolerant of the outside world, that is, which this film will give you the impression is not possible. I may be an Orthodox Jew living in Jerusalem among other Orthodox Jews, but I came in from the outside, so I probably have a higher appreciation for the "the Other" than the kinds of people depicted in this film. But that's mostly because I have known and have even been the Other, and they have not.

The subject of this film hits close to home -- but only in a surreal and amateurish way. It is about the lives of a few characters living in the Meah Sha'arim reighbourhood on the northeast side of modern Jerusalem (close to the Old City). My snapshots in this posting will give you an idea of the landscape. The residents of this community are devoutly religious, close-knit, and somewhat sheltered. The preceding link was on an official Israeli website, but a bit more information can be found here on the Ohr Somayach website. Though they are by and large descendants of some of the original zionists, they distance themselves firmly from the modern zionist philosophy and government.

The truth is that I am more than somewhat wary of the Meah Sha'arim residents, whom non-Jews tend to label "ultra-Orthodox". It is not the kind of society that I would consider ideal, and I would not want to live there. They appear to live by an ethic that does not agree with me. There are probably some things that go on there that are not so pretty. But not many. There are probably some unhappy marriages. But not many.

I am also pretty tolerant of them, since they are bound to live by the same Torah as I am. Is there any wrongdoing? Then it should be punished. If not, then leave them alone. Their strangeness is not in and of itself enough to castigate them.

There really is no such thing as "ultra-Orthodox", by the way. This term is just a lazy sobriquet under which to lump together everyone who is more ma'hmir (stringent) than ones self or whose life is incomprehensible. We who are Orthodox live by different philosophies of life, and in different societies, but the particular philosophies practiced by these kinds of people do not make them any more (or less) devoutly religious than people who live in other communities, like mine, where there is a mix of Orthodox and secular, with all shades in between. They are not as likely to have gone to a movie theatre, or to look at something in the internet, have a blog, to listen to the radio, as I am. Not many of them have sat ouside watching the world go by or studying at Blue Sky Coffee in Athens, Georgia, as I have. In fact, they have perhaps never sat at a coffee house. It does not make them better than me, any more than my worldliness makes me better than them.

And the impression that a person may get by the use of that term, combined with one's impressions of other religions, may lead one to think that the "ultra-Orthodox" are religious zealots who are out to convert other people to their lifestyle, or to overthrow the government. I once had a Turkish friend (a Muslim) who, when she saw me with a beard, implored me to trim it because I looked like a zealot. The fact that I was studying in yeshivah probably only compounded that fear. Well, I have news for you who harbour similar prejudices: these people are overwhelmingly underwhelming.

If you were to ask them why they choose to live in such a neighbourhood, why they don't enjoy such luxuries as television and internet, why they don't read mainstream newspapers, or get engaged in affairs of international import, or why they do not at least go to university and study some feminist theory, they might tell you by way of response that they do not want to be corrupted by the outside world, or bring such corrupting influences into their homes. And if you suggest they do otherwise, they might suggest you have no business to tell them how to run their lives.

Case in point, this from today's news:

HAREIDI PAPERS CANCEL CELL-PHONE ADS
The hareidi newspapers have decided to stop all advertising for the cellular phone companies until the problem of the inappropriate content services is solved. The decision was made in accordance with a ruling handed down by "The Rabbis Committee of the Torah Giants." So reported leading hareidi newspaper Yated Ne'eman today, and HaModia newspaper and Mishpacha magazine are also "included" in the decision.

The rabbis recently ruled that cell phones represent a spiritual danger, in that they afford easy access to content that stands in contrast to a Torah lifestyle. "The goal is to establish a strong fence," Yated Ne'eman reports, "that will protect the generation of the future, and the community of those who follow Torah, from a grave spiritual blow that is already being felt now and that is expected to get stronger in the coming years. The spiritual dangers are multiplying in keeping with the tremendous investments being made by the cellular companies who wish to take advantage of every means to enrich their coffers by upgrading their content services."

A solution to the problem, say the rabbis, will come in the form of cell phones programmed not to receive content, but to be used only for phone calls.

Yated Ne'eman reported that both hareidi and national-religious media praised the decision - although a representative of at least one of the latter said that no decision had been made. "If our rabbis instruct us not to accept such ads, we won't," he said. "As it is, we don't accept ads for cigarettes, vacations abroad, and businesses that are open on the Sabbath that have competitors that are not [as opposed to, for instance, Ben Gurion International Airport]."

Okay, so they are especially cautious. So are monks in many religions, and so are many religious specialists -- be they priests, gourous, or mullahs. What is tricky here is that they appear to be Westerners, so we expect them to blend in. Since they do not, we get irritated. We become determined to find a flaw in their lives, and punish them for it.

It will probably not come as a shocker to you that the way of life depicted in this film is not 100% accurate. It's a play after all, with about six cast members, just filmed mostly on location for a realistic look. Those who see Kadosh and are convinced that it is telling things the way they really are, is suffering from a particularly hallucinogenic form of wishful thinking. The events in this scenario are ugly, and the audience probably wants them to be ugly. Because the audience is often antisemitic (even latently) or, if Jewish, anti-Orthodox.

Eliette Abécassis is French, Sephardic-Moroccan, and lovely in photos, and she is even an industrious author. I imagine she would be fun to talk to and probably carries on witty and thoughtful conversation. But if this script is any indication of her knowledge of the lives of Orthodox Jews, she is intellectually lazy. She researched her book La répudiée, sure, probably asking a lot of tough questions to two or three people. This is the novel that she adapted with Amos Gitai for the screenplay of this movie. And although I only read the first chapter, I could tell that it was already better than this stinker.

The plot of Kadosh: Two sisters, Rivkah and Malcah, confide in each other as they live their lives in their oppressive and male-dominated world. Rivkah has been married to Meïr for ten years, yet they have not yet had a child, a fact which weighs heavy on her husband's mind. Meïr and Rivkah are nevertheless deeply in love. But Meïr listens to the insane advice of his rabbi, who says that after ten years with no child, it is time for him to divorce his wife and start over with a new one. Rivkah's sister, Malcah, is going through her own crisis: she has a boyfriend (in a society that strictly forbids such relationships), and what's worse, he has been in the army. No chance they can marry. So Rivkah is set up with several men, and refuses to marry each of them. But now she is getting tired and decides to wed the next one who comes along, although he is a zealot and, as it turns out, abusive.

Even though the world they inhabit is filled with family and friends, we never see beyond the dingy walls of their one-room apartments or synagogue. It is also not clear to which world they belong: in reality, there are many sects of Orthodox Jews, observing dress codes and traditions. We use these symbols to distinguish between one another. Yet the characters of this film appear to be a blend of different groups who in reality would hardly associate with each other. At one moment you may get the impression they are in the particular sect of 'hassidim (who shall remain unnamed) who have bizzare rules marital relations; but at another moment you notice they are sporting black hats or displaying a portrait of the Ben Ish 'Hai (a Sephardic authority, with no relation to 'hassidic groups) on the wall. There are no large community events here: no Shabbat dinners, no tishes, no engagement parties. The wedding itself is a deplorable farce. A little more under the 'houpah, maybe?

Shall I go on? I don't know if this is Abécassis' fault, or Gitai's, or just the cumulative stupidity of the actors and crew involved. These people are trying to look like authentic Orthodox Jews, warts and all, but they can't get it right. The Meïr character can't put on tefillin. The rabbi looks like he just finished selling radishes in the shuk rather than spending decades in talmudic study, and the women sound like they have been reading an awful lot of Naomi Ragen. The scenes of them dipping in the mikveh (immersion pool) are beyond preposterous: they hold their noses, one hand is out of the water holding onto the side of the pool, and the balanit (immersion supervisor) is pushing them down with her hand. All three details render the immersion invalid. This is proof enough that none the writers, actors, or crew knew squat about a religious life. What's more, the men conduct business in the synagogue, during a service, as if it were a church: they walk over to the side quietly, debate, conclude, and then go back to their places. Absurd! It is forbidden to talk during prayers, and there is no chance one would speak with someone else during his own prayers, which is what is going on here.

And a couple would never have relations in the presence of a bookshelf of holy books. And yet that is the focal point of the climactic scene. Ridiculous.

Oh, I appreciated the cinematography. I enjoyed seeing local sights that I walk through on a nearly daily basis sometimes. We don't get that much on film. I appreciated the LONG takes: the waking-up sequence at the beginning, and the long walk down Meah Sha'arim street, which swivels around when Meïr walks by and still gets some local colour and characters for several more moments. But besides this, it was long where it needed not be, and short on details. There is a scene near the end in which Rivkah, now separated from her husband, recites a traditional prayer for an easy childbirth. She is gazing dreamily at the cieling, and her luscious lips pass slowly over her teeth. What we wonder is, "is she really pregnant?" What the film answers is, "Look at those lips! Aren't they luscious passing over her teeth as she recites some random traditional prayer, having something to do with the subject?"

The last scene shows Malcah walking on a hill outside of the Old City of Jerusalem, opposite the Temple Mount. Only those familiar with the geography here can realise that she is on the Mount of Olives, and why. (If I told you why, it would be a spoiler, so research it yourself.)

Nice camerawork? Yes. But the ignorant depiction of this world, even adeptly filmed, does not deserve any praise. Want an interesting story? So describe the people the way they are, and the exact issues that they are facing in their lives. Truth is stranger than fiction.

This is a snapshot of the video store, to which I just returned this DVD. It is frequented by many 'harédim and 'hassidim, and is located in a neighbourhood called Na'halaot, which is no less fascinating than the one depicted in this movie. But it's also beautiful and filled with a variety of interesting people of different origins. Some are devoutly religious, and some not. It is in the heart of Jerusalem, making it a prime spot for what could be an interesting novel or film, one based on reality. But I don't expect to see that one at Cannes anytime soon. You see, truth in this part of the world is complex and difficult to navigate, but it is heady and exhilirating to appreciate. Fiction, in comparison, looks like a cheap fur hat. But if you appeal to antisemites, they will accept the fur hat as authentic.

One thing was realistic in this movie: when men celebrate, they really do dance around in a circle, and they really know only three songs for such occasions. That's right, only three. What a glimmer of authentic silliness in this otherwise humourless movie.

Bad Boys II (2003)

2004-10-11T14:31:00.000+02:00

The Hebrew translation of "Bad Boys" in Hebrew, as you see on the left, is "Evil Boys". That's not an inappropriate choice of words. The anonymous translators could have chosen the word shovav (or shobab) instead as the translation for "bad", since it means something like "mischievous" or "rambunctious". And that sentiment would have perhaps more accurately reflected the spirit of the first Bad Boys flick. The conscience-reggae song by Inner Circle, which became the Cops theme, provided the original 1995 movie title. Ian Lewis's lyrics are about taking responsibility for your misdeeds. But ironically, the title of these movies refers to the policemen, who in this case do not take any responsibility for their reckless behaviour. So we lucked out here with one of those unintentionally funny translations that ends up nailing the true meaning in the film. It's not just the criminals that are bad boys in this one; it's the cops. These guys are evil.

Let me make this clear: I don't know what happened here. I expected this flick to be a good one, in the sense of a fun, buddy-cop action movie, like the 1995 Bad Boys... Actually, I have a suspicion that it had to do with a change of personnel between the first and the second. Granted, Jerry Bruckheimer and Michael Bay are responsible for both, and perhaps they have simply turned cynical and greedy over the years, but the rest of the writing and producing team is different.

These are guys who, if they were shooting a scene set in a library, would have explosions going off among the stacks, with books flying and stained-glass windows crashing down, for no particular reason. These are guys who, if they set a scene in a monastery, would have monks leaping out of their cells and stabbing passers-by on their way to the chapel, for no particular reason. These are guys who would film a scene set at an opera and have the set crash down on the singers, who would (if they were women) take off their clothes in their panic, or (if they were men) would be impaled by Neptune's fork and eject guts all over the stage... and we're just talking about an opera scene whose purpose in the film would be to demonstrate that the main characters are classy and sophisticated -- not as the scene of the showdown.

There is one scene in this movie, I kid you not, in which overweight "businessmen" push desks and file cabinets out of the windows of their office, which is some floors above ground level. I think they were trying to hide evidence or something. With much thought and contemplation, I still could not figure out what the purpose of this scene was. Except, of course, to show what a giant desk falling out of a building looks like.

There is a grotesque scene in a mortuary, which involves uncovering a dead woman's body. Of course, she is undressed, perfectly preserved, and voluptuous. A few minutes later she is referred to as a "bimbo". No one questions this terminology. Are mortuary workers really so misogynist?

And here is an example of how bad the writing is: the F-word is tossed about carelessly, losing all meaning. Okay, nothing new there. But what's funny is that Lawrence uses it at least twice in its literal meaning. Of course, once it has lost its meaning, it is useless for him to try to use it literally. But he does, both times highly inappropriately: once to a young boy who is coming to take his daughter out on a date, and once to remark that rodents copulate in the same fashion as humans. (Note to moronic script-writer: no, animals don't.) What bothered me more in this was that Marcus is supposedly controlling his anger, and taking compassion on other human beings, even on criminals. And yet when they visit a prison, he curses at the inmates, pointlessly.

And most notably, there is a scene of the police officers driving a humvee over and through countless shanty homes in Cuba, with no conscience. There is no point to this, except to see a humvee driving over big stuff. But these are people's homes!

I somehow remember enjoying the first Bad Boys. I remember getting past their language and enjoy the humour. I don't remember it being excessively violent, as action flicks go. I remember the chemistry that Will Smith and Martin Lawrence had, the ongoing good-natured buddy rivalry that kept their job interesting and their relationship with the bad guys clear. It didn't hurt that we liked them anyway from their previous television characters -- keep in mind that Will Smith's biggest film so far had been Six Degrees of Separation, and that this was well before Independence Day and, best of all, Men in Black. In other words, he was basically still the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air in most people's minds when this came out, and Martin Lawrence was still a UPN and House Party funny man (remember Kid and Play? no, I don't either).

And I remember Téa Leoni, who I thought was enough of a reason to watch the thing, no matter how it turned out. (Even though I knew it was probably a sin to think so, since she was married to David Duchovny.) She played the friend of a prostitute or stripper or something who had been killed; I think she was a witness to the crime, so the guys had to put her in homemade witness protection, for some reason pretending to be each other. And I remember realising at about this point that in Hollywood's simplistic mentality, an action movie with black heroes necessitated most of the bad guys being white (a theory that has demonstrated itself ever since: references upon request). But the guys were essentially protectors of justice and punishers of wrongdoing, and were therefore good policemen who got the job done. We thought we were seeing what comedians became when they grew up. Good will abounded.

Not so, lo these eight years later. The Lawrence and Smith characters are now pure evil. I hate to say it, but you can see for yourself. They have burned out with their job and taken opposite directions: no longer interested in justice, Mike (Smith) just wants to strut his style and kill witnesses, while Marcus (Lawrence) is intent on putting the finishing touches on destroying their already crumbling friendship and crying about how bad his life is. It is bad: he has a beautiful wife and family, a beautiful home and yard by the water in Miami, a veranda, a pool, a big dog, a barbecue grill, etc. No, what really is the problem is his partner, who is psychopathic. So he is about to leave him.

The plot is (a) extremely complicated and (b) makes no sense. It is about fifteen different possible action plots woven together, shot in about three hundred different locations. But this is no Magnolia, folks. This is Frankenstein's monster (just before someone opens up his cadaver to stuff it with a loosely-sealed plastic bag full of X). You see each location for about ten seconds, and then it's on to the next one. And the cast of thousands means you are going to have to pay attention to minor characters, since they will be introduced for a few seconds, disappear, and come up later in the "story".

Speaking of which. There are some drug importers, the head of whom is Cuban (i.e. major bad guy). There is an ecstasy lab in Amsterdam. There is some connexion with a mortuary, which launders their imports, so to speak. There is a KKK rally, which is of course full of white bad guys, but ridiculous ones. There is a Russian rave-club owner, who is not quite a whiz at business, but who at least has the good sense to throw a guy out from the midst of fabulously beautiful dancing women, if it looks like he is about to overheat and die of an ecstasy overdose. (Interestingly, he could take them straight to the mortuary for use in importations: now that would be character economy!) There is Joey Pants, playing the stereotypical raging police chief who must both chew out Marcus and Mike, and let them do their stuff. And finally, there is Martin Lawrence's sister Syd (Gabrielle Union), an undercover NYC police officer who is moonlighting in the drug trade -- oh, right, trying to arrest someone.

If you decide to throw caution to the wind and watch this piece of drek, it will be for the thousands of pointless action sequences, for the beautiful colours and scenery, for the well-orchestrated sound track, or for the "humour". But I cannot help throwing out a few questions that leaped up in my mind while I was trying to keep up with the whole mess, in hopes that it would redeem itself by the end.

Why does it seem that Syd -- Marcus's sister and Mike's love interest -- is a little too deeply undercover? Clues abound that she is not really working for the police... but they never pay off. Is this just bad writing?
There is a funny scene in which Mike and Marcus discuss the latter's being shot in the rear end the night before, which is causing him impotence. Everyone around thinks they are homosexuals, while Mike explains to Marcus in vivid metaphors that he doesn't want to hear about his malfunctioning equipment. He uses the metaphor of burying this discussion at the bottom of the sea. This is clearly a reference to the case they are trying to solve, as it is the answer they are looking for concerning the smuggling methods used by the X importers. This is obviously a chance for Mike to hit up on the answer serendipitously. But he doesn't! Is this just bad writing?
Why does the redneck klansman double as a boat captain and trusted sea watchman during a stakeout?
Who is the Cuban guy who double-crosses them at the end? Is he the cousin of the Miami police officer who is always kidding Mike and Marcus (that's either Yul Vazquez (as Mateo Reyes) or Jason Manuel Olazabal (as Marco Vargas))? If so, why does he do that? Was he bad from the beginning or just trying to save his own skin?

And this list could go on, but I am sick of thinking about this two-hour-plus waste of an evening. Plus, I suspect it really doesn't matter.

Shop Talk

2004-10-09T21:03:00.000+02:00

Yes, that last post was a bit pre-dated. The reasons is that it had been in the works since before Yom Kippour but I wanted to put the appropriate linkage everywhere. The holidays are over; I'm back to work tomorrow. Please send me your comments and opinions. Thanks for reading.

Most memorable moments in cinema

2004-09-25T20:35:00.000+02:00

It's the new year in my part of the world. And what's more, we are starting with a clean slate (metaphysically speaking). This refreshing cycle makes it possible to access a higher state of consciousness -- which we immediately put to work by building an outdoor thatched-roof hut. Glass of havdalah wine in hand, we head outside following 26 hours of no food and drink, to start work with power tools.

It seems appropriate to stop focusing on negativity for once. Instead of roasting another movie that did everything wrong, I am going to talk about a few that did something right. (Don't worry, we'll be back to the harsh stuff next week.) Hence, the most memorable moments in cinema...

Pretty daring, huh? Obviously what follows is a subjective list of the film moments that were most memorable to me. This is based on no survey, although you are free to suggest your own. And I am not even claiming they were great moments. These were the moments that stuck in my mind for some reason, for a long time, and in some cases had a profound effect on my aesthetic. I cannot always say exactly why. But these are moments when, in my opinion, a filmmaker was doing something right. Something amazingly right. Something that makes me glad I sat through the whole film.

You might notice a trend or two. The sometimes skewed nature of the choices is just due to the selection of movies that I have and have not seen. One more thing: most of this is from memory, so there may be a few factual errors.

Here they are, in no particular order.

Mark Walberg (as Eddie Adams/Dirk Diggler) slowly realises he really needs to get out of his current path in life, while waiting in a dealer's living room for a bag of fake heroin to be bought, in Boogie Nights.
Elinor Dashwood (Emma Thompson) discovers her mistake about Edward Ferrars (Hugh Grant)'s marital status in Sense and Sensibility.
Tom Cruise (as Frank T.J. Mackey) holds the telephone on which Philip Seymour Hoffman (as Phil Parma) has managed to call him, and hesitating to talk to his father ,in Magnolia.
Warden Samuel Norton (Bob Gunton) opens up Andy Dufresne's (Tim Robbins) Bible in Shawshank Redemption.
Gérard Depardieu, as Cyrano de Bergerac, composes a sonnet while sword-fighting in Jean-Paul Rappeneau's film named for that character.
Robin Williams goes back into the crumbling house with his wife Annabella Sciorra in What Dreams May Come.
Jean Réno taking the NY subway after his day job in Léon (a.k.a. The Professional)
Jacques Mayol (Jean-Marc Barr)'s underwater dream in Le Grand Bleu.
Sean Connery eating steak in The Hunt for Red October (and calmly stating, "Personally, I give us... one chance in three").
Neo getting up off the floor in The Matrix.
"The Frog" Jean-Baptiste (Cris Campion) and Princess María-Dolores de la Jenya de la Calde (Charlotte Lewis) floating apart in separate boats at the end of Roman Polanski's Pirates.
Mel Gibson realising his daughter's glasses of water are not such a nuisance, in Signs.
Depardieu, as Christopher Columbus, beginning to dictate his memoirs to his son in 1492. ("I remember...", he says, and drops of ink fall from his son's pen.)
Marcel Proust (Marcello Mazzarella)'s face liquifing, from sobreity to grief, in Le Temps Retrouvé.
Mandy Patinkin declaring "My Name is Inigo Montoya", in The Princess Bride. Oh, and the Cliffs of Insanity.
Jenny (Robin Wright Penn) throwing rocks at her childhood home in Forrest Gump.
Tom Hanks losing Wilson in Cast Away.
Depardieu, (again) playing a piano solo in Green Card.
Braveheart (Mel Gibson, again) gets a chance to recant, and instead cries out "Freedom".
André Ziman's wife Elise sings "I'm in Heaven" to her husband, along with the radio, in Claude Lelouche's Les Misérables.
Wind in His Hair shouts to Dances with Wolves (Kevin Costner) from a ledge above, as the latter leaves the tribe.
Val Kilmer, as Doc Holliday, showing up at a duel with a marshall's badge, in Tombstone. ("I'm your huckleberry.")
Bill Murray, in What about Bob?, cheerfully continuing to take Richard Dreyfus' advice as metaphor, after being tied with ropes to a chair in the forest.
Jim Carrey, in the Truman Show, starting to suspect something.
Kiefer Sutherland (as Dr. Daniel Schreber) refreshing a few childhood memories for Rufus Sewell (as John Murdoch), in Dark City.
Bill Murray filming his whisky advert "with intensity", in Lost in Translation.
Robert Duvall arguing with God in The Apostle.
Winona Ryder writing furiously in her journal, in Heathers.
Charles Berling (Grégoire) riding his horse across the French plains in Ridicule.
Audrey Tautou leading the blind man across the block in Paris, in le Fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain.
The Marquise Isabelle de Merteuil (Glenn Close), explaining to Vicomte Sébastien de Valmont (John Malkovich), how she trained herself to hide her feelings by stabbing herself with a fork under the table, in Dangerous Liaisons.
Tom Hulce as Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, dictating his Requiem mass to F. Murray Abraham (Antonio Salieri).
Steve Martin and John Candy think the drivers who are in the opposite lane on the highway cannot possibly know which way they are going ("Thank you!") (Planes, Trains, and Automobiles).
Robin Williams (again), telling Matt Damon "It's not your fault", in Good Will Hunting.
Steve Buscemi's opening narrative in Desperado.

The Laws of Attraction (2004)

2004-09-23T20:24:00.000+02:00

Just what are the laws of attraction (not to be confused with the Rules of Attraction, the Rules, or the Code)?

I'll tell you, dear reader, because this took a lot of figuring out. Apparently the secret connexion between the title of this film and its contents is that the principle characters are lawyers. Hence, the "Laws" of attraction!

And that is about as deep as this movie gets. Not that it needs to be deep. Hey, maybe viewers just want a simple laugh with popcorn once in a while, no brains required. Maybe viewers want to watch two highly famous actors, Julianne Moore and Pierce Brosnan, argue and flirt, and argue and flirt some more, and perhaps hit it off, and perhaps get married, and argue a lot more, and perhaps fall in love, and argue some more, because it's just so darned cute to see mature adults carry on like that!

But maybe, precisely because these two are such mature, seasoned actors we can allow ourselves expect more? If the romantic comedy genre must exist, and I think it does, then we might anticipate a variety of characters, represented by a variety of actors. Those on the bottom of the echelon can be stereotypical, for all I care. You know, hen I see a movie with an actor from Friends, I don't care if it's the same basic character, just with a different name. If Adam Sandler is in the billing, I'm not disappointed if it's the same old shtick. But Julianne Moore doesn't need to do their job. She should be above that.

Admittedly, this film had genuinely funny moments. But I saw a lot more moments that were obviously supposed to be humorous, but which depended upon the audience sacrificing an awful lot of their good sense in order to accept.

The plot and its many details are about as realistic as the First Wives' Club, and are apparently directed at the same demographic group. I hesitated to make such a cruel comparison, and almost did not type it. But that is the purpose of this website. FWC was perhaps my first glimpse at full-bore stupidity in the guise of a narrative about intelligent women.

The story: Julianne Moore, doing her best Andy McDowell simple-country-girl accent, has ever lived in the shadow of her socialite mother, Frances Fisher, who is doing her best Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy-Onassis accent. This actress, by the way, was the evil, selfish mother of Kate Winslet in Titanic, but now she is the doting, "go gettim' girl" mother of Moore, who is only a few years younger in real life. (Funny: that Jackie-O accent comparison arrived at to me by my own analysis, before I saw her filmography. Take a look at #11.) Anyway, Moore is a an anal-retentive divorce attourney who is serious about breaking up marriages when it becomes clear that they are finished. Pierce Brosnan is an apparently scatterbrained divorce attourney who becomes her opponent.

Brosnan's character is inexplicable. We have no indication of where his motivations come from, or whether he believes anything he actually says. He is sort of like Wally in the Dilbert comic strip. You know, the middle-aged loser with deplorable social mores, who gets his thrills taking advantage of everyone else. But there is a twist somewhere, at which point Brosnan becomes likeable. No reason given, mind you. He claims to be in love at one or two points, and we wonder, Is he really? How would we know? How would he know?

The answer: it doesn't matter. It's Pierce Brosnan, and the women are all sucked in by this point by his devastating looks, despite everything else.

The deepest indication of his character is that he seems to prefer patching up a broken marriage rather than purusing divorce. And since that was the focal point of George Clooney's character in Intolerable Cruelty, all I can say is, there is little originality here.

(Side note: I am not accusing anyone of plagiarism. But I have noticed an awful lot of movies in the past two years with repeated themes, or even complete scenes borrowed from one another. Or at least gimmics. See a gimmic once and it's "fresh". See it again in a movie made at the same time, + or - 6 months, and something is fishy. See my upcoming postings on some very regrettable films, Cradle 2 the Grave and Bad Boys 2. Why is this? Is it just the coincidence of cultural streams, or is there a lot of saliva being swapped in Hollywood writers' workshops?)

The worst part of this film is the fact-finding junket that both Moore and Brosnan take, flying to Ireland. The landscape is predictably beautiful, and the milieu is sufficiently romantic enough for the emotional mishaps that are supposed to take place. But the Irish are pitilessly ridiculed here. You would think this was made back in the 1950s, when it was okay to paint an entire nationality with one brush, making them all buffoons. For those who would enjoy the scenery but want a romantic comedy that is not so insulting, I recommend The Englishman who Went up a Hill and Came Down a Mountain.

The characters whom they are ostensibly divorcing are horrible. One is supposed to be a British rockah; his wife is supposed to be a highly successful clothing designer. Fine, that's not bad writing. The dude is seen in concert, spitting out Satan Metal, but generally he's a nice guy who just can't keep his pants zipped up. The woman who plays his wife is one of the worst acts I've seen in a long time. Hardly convincing. Must be a struggling actress's first time....

Geez louise, it's Parker Posey! What the **** happened here?!

The flow is not unified; it is mostly just a series of gags. Did you buy that one? Okay, so you'll buy this one. Did she really drink that? Okay, so you will laugh when she is making others drink it later on.

One nagging question remained for me at the end. I know it is not so crucial, but I just want to see if anyone else noticed it. At one point, Audrey Woods' mother, Sara Miller, says that she had to pull a big favour with her friends. She's admitting that she was responsible for something that happened a little bit earlier in the story. At the moment, this something was perceived as a crisis, but it later led to the Audrey and Daniel romantic leads to do something drastic. Audrey, and presumably the audience, finds this stunt cute and caring. I had to wonder, though, if the consequences were really all that good in retrospect. Why didn't Audrey react in fury, "Do you know how much trouble you have caused me?!" But somehow she thinks it is all fine. Why?

Because it's just so darned cute to see mature adults carry on like that.

Shop talk

2004-09-09T08:34:00.000+03:00

A few notes before we get on to our next cinematic failure.

After much consideration, the name of my female Orthodox informant is being changed from "Madame N" to "Mlle N". "Mlle" is of course short for Mademoiselle, which is somewhat more flattering than the matronly, brothel-managing connotations that come with calling her "Madame".

I am writing several reviews simultaneously, and they will be published as I complete them. They are guaranteed to be huge disappointments. But then, that's the point.

I don't know why the hits on this page are so high, but thanks!

Bend it Like Beckham (2002)

2004-09-06T18:52:00.000+03:00

I have come to the conclusion, after watching this movie, that Indians living in diaspora are basically Persian Jews with bare midriffs (bared only on formal occasions, mind you). The almost excessive politeness they practice with guests, the emphasis on family honour, the picture of the bearded Baba on the wall, the equation of "learning to cook like mother" with "coming of age", and the religious devotion can only be found in... well, almost any Sephardic clan, but especially Iranian Jews. But I suppose you could find parallels elsewhere.

It almost happens in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, for example. The religious identity is a bit toned down in that one, because Greeks are more from the West than from the East, and they are Christians, after all. But if you saw the scene of John Corbett being baptised, you'll remember that that movie went for ethnic-wierdness laughs with the religious angle, too.

And as long as we're making the comparison... It is perhaps inevitable that films like Bend it like Beckham and MBFGW will boil down to one or two basic plots:

An family with a high-level ethnic identity, but in exile from that country, faces the challenges of Dominant Anglo culture.

One of their children (usually the daughter) will want to marry someone from outside that culture.

Clashes occur and hilarity ensues, and parental authority is weighted against their offspring's independence, but in the end, everyone learns a valuable life lesson.

That can only be funny and original so many times. After a while, ethnicities in the English-language film industry are going to have to start coming up with some other issues. (oops, I forgot to turn on the <irony> tag. Obviously they do have other issues. Obviously someone is ready to write a novel script about them. It just remains for us to see the finished product.)

I used to pick up a monthly magazine marketed to the Indian-American population in Atlanta, which was distributed for free in organic grocery stores such as Earth Fare and Whole Foods. It was written in English, ostensibly. I could barely read it. Not that the writing was bad; it seemed to be great for those who knew about these cultural subjects already.

But that is probably what it is like for a standard goy to pick up a copy of the Jewish Times. Or better yet, a parshah sheet full of dialectal yeshivish, but trying to explain a story known to everyone, like the story of Noah and the ark. You feel like Lisa Simpson looking at the marquee for a Yahoo Serious Festival: "I know those words, but that sign makes no sense."

The fact is that I like Indians, and believe they have a lot of interesting facets to their culture that the Western world could possibly benefit from if they apprehended it. Unfortunately, encounters with them in diaspora are usually limited to seeing them in the [excrement] jobs they are working in while pursuing the American Dream (or its British equivalent, perhaps).

One more personal anecdote. In my last year of university I was a graduate resident assistant in a dormitory. My job was part of a programme that encouraged students of French or Spanish to speak those languages exclusively: a French house and a Spanish house, in other words (it's still going strong, aparently; see the official site here). But we "immersion" students were on one floor, and on the floors above and below us were normal U.Ga. students, who were not part of the language experiment bubble. Two of the residents in the floor above me were of Indian origin and were somewhat religious, and they became my best friends outside of the language community. One of them, a contagiously happy girl named Aperna, casually explained to me that she did not intend to date until her Baba chose a husband for her. She was a miracle baby, and had been born against all medical expectations, until her parents went to see a Baba, who told them that they would indeed have a daughter, and that they would name her Aperna. So she trusted him with the big decisions. Like I said: Jews.

Their religious convictions appeared to be monotheistic and seemed, strangely, neither to contradict Christianity or Judaism. I do not know if this is part of a syncretic truth dating back to the yeshivah of Shem and Ever (inside reference there; don't fret if you don't get it), or if it is just their way of assimilating into monotheistic society. Supposedly India is the last holdout for polytheism, which is why Israeli soldiers head directly there for a spiritual experience, after they finish their tour of duty. But best of all, these Indian Americans I knew did not pursue converts, and saw their religion mostly as a family tradition that they, and not outsiders, were obligated to. I can deal much better with that, than with a religion that puts up a front of tolerance, but is secretly waiting for the chance to invite you to a "really cool" Bible study or to ask you to read a leaflet.

Back to the movie. My re-subscription to a DSL connexion got me one free movie on the ISP's online-low-res-video selection (complete with Hebrew subtitles). ~~Madame N~~ M^lle N and I had already seen Whale Rider (2002), and had enjoyed its subtle bizarreness enough to try this comedy, which had somehow been compared to WR one in reviews. So we used the freebie on this one, expecting something like a fun treatment of Indian exiles' issues in British society, mixed with a young girl's confrontation with tradition. That's what it looks like, right?

There were several directions this 112-minute movie could possibly go. If you haven't seen it yet, try to predict some plots with me:

The daughter of an orthodox Sikh family rebels against her parents' traditionalism by running off to Germany with a football team. (So says the description on IMDB.)
A British girl, who happens to be of an ethnic minority, is really good playing football, and can only compete against guys until a bona fide girls team becomes available.
A Sikh family tries to marry off their daughter to another Indian family of higher economic status. There are some obstacels, but in the end, it's a great wedding.
A comedy of errors causes a religious family to become ashamed, and the engagement of their daughter broken, when one of their children is mistaken for being too loose with the guys.
A white British girl is a good football player, pleasing her father, but causing her highly sexuality-minded mother to despair at the thought that she is not attracting enough boys and is, in all probability, a lesbian.
An Irishman faces prejudice in England, so he can relate to Indians.
A teenage athlete has to face the embarrassment of wearing shorts because she has a large scar on her leg, but is comforted by the fact that her coach also has a scar on his leg.
A coach has big regrets about his relationship with his father, who expected him to be a great athlete rather than a coach.
Several British teenagers idolise David Beckham, to the point that one builds a shrine to him on her wall and speaks to him like a baba. But one of them loves Beckham a little bit too much.
The teenage daughter of a Sikh family is not yet ready for dating, but thinks she had better force herself to get an Indian boyfriend in order to keep her parents happy.
The ethnic father of an aspiring athlete has to face his own difficult past, since he was the object of prejudice in his own athletic aspirations as a young man.
Two female athletes, who are otherwise friends, compete for the romantic attentions of their male coach, and their friendship is endangered.
A British teenager from a close-knit family wants to go to college in the U.S.
A boy from a traditionally religious family and community is gay, and must hide it.
An engaged couple from religious families are actually in love and make out regularly in a parked car away from both families, but their families know about it after all.

I'm sure I could think of a few more plots; the fact is that they were all there in that one movie. The result was that a few characters were developed while the supporting actors were left in the dust (check out the personalities on the girls soccer team, for instance), and that the struggles and issues at hand were, well, cliché. I know what Gurinder Chadha was trying to do; she was trying to wrap up all these teenage-ethnic-love-sports-gender issues into one curry-spiced burrito, preparing ethnic problems for Western tastes. To this end, there are some genuinely funny scenes, and some nice scenes of Indian celebrations and traditional behaviour. But the major mistake that Chadha made was not believing in the richness of that ethnic identity to carry the film. Instead, she had to throw in the whole pile of coming-of-age-comedy-drama stuff from the war reels.

E.g.:

Girls go shopping! (with a horrible soundtrack -- loud and sucky retro-pop that mars an otherwise cool collection of snippets of Indian pop)
The ugly duckling dresses up in her friends clothes and turns out to be drop-dead gorgeous, attracting the prince to kiss her!
The angry father goes down to stop his daughter from an activity that he disapproves of, but instead ends up enjoying it!
And a celebrity cameo! (but seen from afar, making me think this part was filmed like Chubby Rain in Bowfinger).

And the list goes on. All this story lacks is a scene with Slow Clap and a good moralising speech by a former celebrity, and we would have another teen movie.

Look, some of it works. There is an effort to do something original here. Some of the characters are genuinely interesting, and we would like to see more of them and their feelings. The ugly-duckling thing works; but there was no point in it. We like Jess and we see her attractiveness just from her personality; we don't need to see her turned into a sex object. (Or for that matter, we don't need to see that done to her friend Jules, as is done in a gut-wrenching disco scene. Considering the prudisheness practiced in the girls locker room changing scene, I was shocked at Jules' overt mating dance at this point.)

But the overabundance of subplots does not lend to complexity or character development. It just demonstrates lack of confidence in the core story. And it's confusing; just when you thought one real issue was about to be dealt with, along comes another plot twist from another movie. Chadha needs to focus from now on. And audiences need to learn not to clap their hands just because a few good scenes are thrown at them. And Parminder Nagra deserves to go on to better things.

Why regretful film reviews?

2004-09-05T22:06:00.000+03:00

Oy va voy! What a stinker that flick was! What am I watching here, cinema or chopped liver?! I feel so guilty now!

If that's the kind of discourse you are expecting from a blog called "Regretful Film Reviews", written by an Orthodox Jewish man, then you are in the wrong place.

I just wanted to set the record clear there. The purpose of this site is twofold: (1) praise films that are well-thought-out works of art and give us something substantial to think about and (2) roast the movies that insult our intelligence and waste our time (and money). The title comes from the latter category, which I am afraid is going to be more numerous. (From the notes that I have already jotted down, it's heading that way.)

Why "Regretful"? Because wasting time is like a capital offense for those of us whose lives... (sorry, can't avoid it) answer to a higher authority.

You want a more elaborate answer? Here it is.

<seriousness>

Since moving to Israel in August of 2003, I have been integrating into 'harédi life and yeshivah study. For those of you who do not know what this word "'harédi"means, I'll tell you. Literally, it means fearful, as one who is trembling before God. In practice, however, that translation is not necessarily accurate. It has social and political implications: it is the world of Jewish people who are striving to keep the commandments in the Torah to the best of their abilities and live lives that constantly reflect this purpose. Basically, as if it were possible to sum up such a life, that means constantly studying the Torah and its infinite teachings, while trying to apply them to one's daily life, and avoiding activities and influences that detract from this sense of higher purpose. Of course, the teaching and specific application of those rules are handed down from rabbinic authorities. So a constant awareness of these teachings does indeed keep one busy. The most popular places for the diffusion and understanding of these teachings is in the yeshivah (Torah school) or in the synagogue.

I am not saying it is a perfect system, but in some ways it is an efficient one for education in and practice of our holy sources. And a person who lives here is constantly reminded of this ongoing activity. But one can also forget all those "distractions" and influences that lie outside of the domain of the yeshivah or the synagogue. For example, secular studies are not encouraged or celebrated, except to the extent to which they may lead to making a living. Studying a trade is fine, but studying liberal arts is not so cool. Eventually one chooses either to be part of of the system, for all of its benefits and drawbacks, or not. And for what it's worth, I have chosen to live this life. Sort of. I love living in Jerusalem, and I love studying the Torah, and this is a prime place to do it. Someone who thinks they can show me otherwise, by all means: try.

But I'm not saying I avoid learning secular subjects -- to the contrary. In this society it is easy to lose touch with the outside world, which only drizzles its way into Jerusalem life occasionally and in often undesirable ways (clothing design, for example -- boys are wearing clothes that were designed for Brazilian women in the 1970s, and porn-star sunglasses). A person like me who has some background in academics and the liberal arts may have a longing, once in a while, to reeducate himself with current events and keep up with what is going on, despite the danger of this distraction. So I do engage in one forbidden activity: watching films.

In a way, it's sort of my business. Not my "trade", exactly, but they are a form of literature. And that is my academic field (I passed my doctoral comps in the corpus of French literature, for crimeny. I could be a literature professor by now, if I could just get to a research library, and land the position of course. And I've been branching out to this Semitic stuff for several years now, with some familiarity with its writings...) I love literature, and I love analysing it. And I love producing it, but that remains to be proven. So in addition to enjoying a good story, I am enjoying it on many levels. And while some may watch films for their basic content, I am running plot-debugging scripts.

Not that I'm special. I know people who are exponentially more talented in this domain than I am. I'm just the one writing the blog right now.

I do not think that film-viewing should be a forbidden activity. And I think that it is a recent ruling issued only with those persons in mind who think they are prepared to streamline their lives for 100% Torah-Related Activities. (The feasibility of that in itself is a debatable concept. Cf. the lives of the Rishonim, ahem.) Or those who really do not know how to choose, and are going to make bad (really bad) decisions if given the leeway to watch anything. Not that that's my business. So, yes, I watch some films, even against the objections of bittul zman (waste of time). But I also believe that watching and being engaged by a quality cinematic experience is analogous to reading a good book, albeit shorter, and involving less brain-power. Usually.

Alarms are going off everywhere as frum people read this. Are you implying that the rishonim would have watched today's movies? that they would have wallowed in Hollywood's gutters of foul language and sex? So, (1) of course not. Different times, different issues. But (2) sex in today's Hollywood is a lot less prolific, and less offensive, than the violence portrayed.

I have been trying to indoctrinate my Israeli 'harédia secret companion (known heretofore as ~~Madame N~~ M^elle N), not on stereotypical American-male cinema taste, but rather on the films that I have enjoyed most throughout the years growing up in America. Especially those who have influenced me heavily, and from which I have derived important lessons about the construction of good fiction. She has seen considerably fewer movies, and is still impressed by some plot devices that to me are old-hat, but our taste often falls along the same lines.

For the record, she was educated in the Beit Ya'akov HaYashan "seminary", which is the premier training ground for 'Harédi Israeli women.

So we try to educate ourselves with a few hours of well-done cinema here and there, something the 'harédim are not supposed to do -- so sue me. We have also used our subscription to the DVD store to try to find a few entertaining new titles along the way. And sometimes that is where the problem comes in. Because I have been hugely disappointed too many times. Just within this year I have realised that my standards have been jacked up way too high. Either that, or filmmakers are just letting their standards down. Probably it's a combination of both.

Upshot: they are often a waste of time. Oh, the cruel irony! So I regret both the waste of time and the brain clutter that they have produced.

What is most disappointing? Probably that which educated film-viewers and students of the cinema have long been aware of, long before me. My biggest complaints:

Lack of plot originality,

Plots that contradict themselves because they are not well enough though-out,

Unrealistic details that insult the audience's intelligence and its willing suspension of disbelief,

And downright insulting character portraits and plot techniques that go for the easy payoff, rather than giving the audience something to think about.

So this blog is here for the purpose of critiquing these movies as badly as they have disappointed me. Take note, Hollywood stupidity: your days are numbered. I am here to blow your cover, make the paying public more demanding, and destroy your easy business!

[sound of crickets chirping]