The Ferris Bueller's Day Off / A Christmas Story / The Breakfast Club in its sense of actual insight into the minds of youth. And its sense of being worn down from repeated, marathon viewings.

The three of us put our heads together, and...

[Ben starts with] I finally watched ‘Weekend’. Though his essay sometimes veers towards too-obtuse ramblings – for the most part, it actually worked for me. His portrayal of French society – with the usual violent anti-bourgeois sentiment – was certainly a passionate one, only occasionally, though, did I feel like it held a universal stake in things. The sequence wherein the camera tracks past the traffic jam sometimes enters a realm of slapstick – which, through the very little exposure to Godard, I’ve come to recognize as something he’s got a strange fondness for (though here, it seems to work best). The film itself has an odd, cartoonish feel to it that’s dead-on. [Only to amend it five minutes later] Yeah. I just realized that this reaction to Weekend reads as, quite simply, the most generic answer to a Godard film ever written. So, whoops. [Ed writes] So I did read your post-script to this and, believe me, it's hard to say anything original about Weekend. "Savage annihilation of the bourgeoisie!"  "Breakdownof society!"  "That traffic jam scene is fucking awesome!"  It's all been said before and all you can do is join a camp.  (I'll add this, though: I liken it to The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, in that it doesn't try to say anything truly ground breaking about them; just pokes fun the way a master does.  Bunuel does better, sure, but I appreciate Godard's apocalyptic bent as well.)  At best, it's a collection of highly amusing set pieces: the description of the menage-a-trois; the traffic jam (natch); the 360-degree musical sequence with the (I believe) hippies; the final scene.  I also like the part where they're hitch-hiking and their possible saviors keep asking them questions to deem them pick-up-able.  Far and away not my favorite Godard, but pretty darn good all the same. [Randy closes with]It's difficult not to be generic when responding to a Godard film, because he's so damn confounding and his films are basically a fuck you to those who would respond to them.  Well, not all of them.  Certainly Weekend, though. Pauline Kael had a non-generic response to his films that I'll try to paraphrase.  Something about that it is impossible and wrong for filmmakers to emulate Godard -- it never works.  Unlike Renoir, who paves the way for other filmmakers to follow his path, Godard burns up the road behind him.

I like the seeming randomness of the sequences, but this movie can't decide if it wants to be an off-the-wall, one-of-a-kind style comedy or some penetrating commentary on the suffering of the elite (and thereby, a satire remanding these characters to a 'you don't deserve our sympathy, but here it is anyway' sort of purgatory - in that case, the joke would be (yikes) on the audience that cares for these characters). But it can't be both. Because it doesn't really work as both.

Kind of a shame that the movie's not expressly about the rivalry of Karl Malden and Burt Lancaster, playing an idealistic prison warden and a reforming con, respectively. But not too much of a shame. That would have made perhaps a better movie in a genre closer to potboiler, but Birdman of Alcatraz is a strange canary: Part strict, literary biography of a man who revlutionized animal science from behind bars and who dissected the rehabilition process in a book about the history of prisons; part alarmingly hopeful psych eval of a man acknowledging his mistake and quietly making the most of his life - all of it just owned by Burt Lancaster. As Robert Stroud, a twisted mama's boy/hateful killer, Lancaster graduates to more levels of self-improvement than any scientologist or reincarnated snail could ever possibly expect to hope for. He changes with such gradually realized conviction that comparisons to Ghandi aren't unwarranted (even from me). Right, so, granted, it's a wee bit excessive in the length this transformation is allowed to expand to, and in how diametrically opposite Stroud's big, second act "Rehabilitated at last, Rehabilitated at last, Thank God Almighty, Rehabilitated at last!" speech sounds coming from the mouth of a guy who had, only ninety screen minutes prior, stabbed a man for not letting him see his mommy. It's never a complete success because it really is so goddamn manipulative (Stroud has a spiritual riddle for almost any occasion) - but it's the kind of manipulation we tend to enjoy as an audience. Close cousin to Ron Howard's A Beautiful Mind, for sure.

Storytelling fraught with gaps and it seated at the height of silent overacting, Cabiria is a curiosity piece because it chooses to experiment with storybook-like spectacle in ways that are often astounding (spewing obvious inspiration to adventure films as diverse as Gladiator, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom and Lawrence of Arabia). Main characters Flavius and Machiste are charming, bumbling heros, who may have gone on to, in another life, been involved in dozens and dozens of American Independent Films, Buddy Comedies and, let's say, The Hidden Fortress. It's like a big workprint that everyone (seemingly) has borrowed from - but it's not all that compelling and, in places, is absolutely incoherent.

As pure entertainment, as a celebration of pop culture as referenced - both manifested through the mise en scene, or as quoted by the characters – this feels, almost vividly, as if it were a film version of Godard having an actual, palpable conversation with his audience. The three principles spend so much time with such little motive, their actions mere extensions of the very definition of hip, so much so, that it’s almost an afterthought that Godard may be saying something about American crime drama that isn’t altogether sarcastic. Reminded me most of Shoot the Piano Player, mostly for it’s sheer belief in the power of dialogue – and it’s insistence that most of that dialogue be as disposable as a candy wrapper and as sweet as said wrapper’s contents. The scene where Odile, Franz and Arthur dance is wonderful – but so are the little things: Franz’s insistence on driving cool, the close-ups complete with suggestive music when Odile removes her stockings; and the ease with which Franz and Arthur are foiled, in the end, by an old woman. I had such a good time watching it, though, that I’d like to see it again just to sort out what a marvelous piece of art it really is.

The excercise itself is so much fun to behold, each moment as rich and thick in its assault on the elitist as it is seamlessly clever in its fold-within-a-fold storytelling technique. Never making a proper connection other than on a "safe" level, the Bourgeoisie are forever attempting to dine, and forever interrupted, often by the realization that their existence is merely a dream in an ever more unstable reality. Bunuel uses an almost fetishistic approach to the specificity of his big joke - every detail (the proper martini, the ghost of a former police officer, the rubber food as props in a big stage production of...surprise, the Bourgeoisie!) is a careful jab at the whole idea of thinking yourself superior - - - right down to accepting reality as a catch-all end all. And it's one of the less grueling Great films you obligate yourself to see.

Besides being one of the best examples of near-universal miscasting - it's a theaterical TV movie from first to last (with Katie Holmes' breasts as justification for its release - not that I'm complaining, mind). Only Giovanni Ribisi seems to have actually showed up on the set (and that goes for Raimi as well, whose insistence on following his first promising, not merely nerd-approved film, A Simple Plan with two movies that make me wish he'd used at least some of the dippy humor displayed in his Evil Dead pictures, or comic book imagery splattered throughout Darkman - this film and For Love of the Game). Then the big surprise of Spider-Man. Hopefully that will keep him busy and not directing films as thoughtless and overwhelmingly obvious as this one.

I've heard it said that the film is a dissection of the breakdown of modern marriage. For certain (and, in addition), though, Contempt is satirizing movies about movies - and the very arrogance we display in feeling for any characters who are merely portrayed by actors (as the cast is divulged in voice-over, I'd say this observation is a safe bet). My favorite mood of Godard's is his morning mockery; Here, he bathes the film in bright morning light while a couple - a screenwriter, and his former-typist bombshell wife - get used by Jack Palance (as Producer Prokosch), and then he (Godard) valiantly changes their emotions as quickly as he changes their clothes, the music and the technique. He's challenging you to keep up with the cruelty of fiction - and he's laughing quite deliberately at himself, for even thinking of challenging us the first place. The most misunderstood aspect of the filmmaking is the precision itself: Godard just doesn't take himself, or his films very seriously. The hit or miss conundrum this creates works, in this case - - - it works like gangbusters. Contempt is a powerful melodrama infused into what actually plays - on one level more - as a terrifically genuine, languidly paced afternoon of casual discussion around a retro Rome flat. The film makes it a point to be cool even as it's being smart-alecky. A masterwork.

Same delirious tour ride through an obscurity I'm utterly partial to the second time around. Same hilarious tour guide. Same sloppy, satisfied smile slides on said stoma (It means mouth, I looked it up).

Same casual insistence on developing characters, same stubborn refusal to end twenty minutes before it gets tiresome.

Besides being one of the most stunningly effective dissections of nostalgia, it's a total hoot. The characters are thoroughly endearing - each and every one - and the time-shifting is - - - eh, fuck it. I thought I'd be able to express an original thought. But I guess not.

[Note: I am hereby exempt from producing original thoughts due to accrued viewing numbers and inability to function as critic in the face of obvious prejudice and favoritism due to the young age at which the predominant number of viewings were beheld].

Delights in confusion to the point of excess. Spins the original just enough not to seem stale, but sometimes goes overboard with suspense tactics (I felt like Zemeckis was personally torturing me and me alone by putting the Sports Almanac just out of Marty's reach for what feels like a half hour's worth of screen time - and that's just wrong). What you really marvel at is - by the third act - Zemeckis and his writing partner, Bob Casey, actually manage to keep everything in order. It's like a needless challenge they've created and, you know what, I'm actually impressed when they overcome it.

What I like about 'Schizopolis' is that it is pure vision of a filmmaker throbbing with the pleasure of creating ('member Soderbergh's acceptance speech when he won for 'Traffic' in 2000?). What I love about the film is that Soderbergh bothers to not only make the film a hilarious satire - but
merely that he makes it so lighthearted to begin with. Categorically speaking, it could be registered with the Experimental Film Police but, when you watch it, it's more likely to strike you as an arty fluff piece (I think there's a difference). Exploring enough of the intricacies of film's communicatory aspect to suggest (but not necessarily belie) the claim that he's merely emptying one of many "great idea" notebooks filmmakers tend to keep (note the casual, rehearsed frustration as he reads into a small tape recorder while writing a speech), Soderbergh is actually - as far as I can tell - dissecting his own processes. Let's look carefully at little cross-over moments in just one of the many sub-plots that only seem to make no sense: "I'm having an affair with my wife" (unstated: Because I am two
different people, it's her fault), "You're a worm" (because you can cut one in two and both halves keep wiggling), "Somebody for Bob" (he says after talking to himself on the phone in the other room and returning to convincingly present closure to his dual personality which, instead, looks like he's overlooking his wife's infidelities - - - with him). Soderbergh is gently suggesting that every character is, essentially, two people - the person the filmmaker intends them to be and the person the audience
perceives them to be (based upon personal feelings, preconceived notions - what have you...) On the flip-side, thhere is a whole sub-plot regarding a theory called Eventualism, which seems to have led some folks to the idea that Soderbergh was looking at our attitudes regarding the approaching
millennium (the marketing reps who penned the back-of-the-video-box "grabber", for instance). Instead, I think the film is more about its own craft (I would openly warrant criticism, but I'd compare it to Godard at his most wacky) - and about appealing to universal audience quirks and ticks - than it is about anything in particular. It's almost like a fixated, narcissistic filmmaker creating his own greatest hits of assorted, consistently funny film gags from no body of work at all. One of the most furiously refreshing films I've seen in ages.

The movie isn't built around the practicalities of a lonely woman's decision to learn the trade of whoring. (In fact, it's Deneuve's performance that gives this away - but we'll get to that later). Bunuel, instead, seems interested in the emotional push and pull of Deneuve's decision. No one
seems to ask - or even register - the "why". (The "why" is a potent piece of curiosity Bunuel full well expects to resonate with his audience and, indeed, it does. We spend the entire running time trying to pinpoint just "why" Deneuve chooses to become a prostitute). And because her motives and
actions are constantly distancing her from our perception of a clear cut reason (Her boring life? Her husband? Her reoccurring nightmares?), it should stand as no surprise at all that the eventual conclusion we're left to draw is that, yes, she is an emotional masochist (it's always the quiet
ones...) and, yes, she needs the simultaneous pain and joy of having herself pushed and pulled around to feel whole. She needs her husband to look at her as if she were a mature, experienced adult and not his innocent trophy wife. She needs the shock of each trick. She needs the obsessive clients, with all of their idiosyncratic weaknesses. With all of that heavy baggage out of the way, though, Bunuel creates one of his most upward momentums - all spinning away, allowing the whole thing to continue unevaded by the husband until the final precious moments. (Not before meeting up with the gold-toothed, cane-carrying hooligan Marcel whose mere presence is exciting, as he becomes obsessed with Denueve). For we - the audience - though, the episodic nature of the film is right on target. Not only is Belle de Jour surprising enough to contain scenes as varied as the one where she visits a Duke, who shrouds her and worships her (coffin-side) as his lost daughter (whom we assume he had an incestuous relationship with), but the film situates Denueve, constantly, in harm's way, only to let her, decidedly, off the hook. In that way, it turns her little journey into something that's both transcendent and, essentially, harmless.

So, I end up getting off of my pretentious high horse: I love Hanks' introverted, tortured papa this time around, find the film to be immensely enjoyable, and my new verdict follows: It's one of the better films to come out of the Hollywood machine in recent years. Mendes has a way with pacing, and Newman's sweeping score is a necessary element (though curiously reminiscent to that of his American Beauty) - but what a perfect, entirely fitting sswan song for Conrad L. Hall, whose visual imagination blows our minds with a perfectly toned world of gentle browns, aching as they do, among such a mixed bag of settings: Capone's Chicago of 1931 (LaPaglia's Capone is restored in a terrific deleted scene on the DVD, by the way), the heartlands of Kansas, the mansions of booze barons and the snowy suburbs of an unnamed town that's a night's drive from Chicago. And the supporting actors, vying - just, whoa, screaming - for a four-way shot at our attention: Newman's constantly torn patriarch/crime boss, Craig's conscience-less blowhard/ambition-crazed son, Tucci's Frank Nitti of soft spoken practicality and, the crowning achievement of the film (and the best supporting performance of the year), Jude Law's deranged-but-brilliant hitman photographer (I say brilliant, and I mean the character: He's always about three paces ahead of everyone but Hanks). I've danced with a whole slew of hyperboles here, but I've revealed something: It's damn near impossible to narrow Perdition's characters down to one description. Maybe that's why they're all so compelling.

An intense allegory - but too abstract, and often, too wildly inconsistent in the animation department to distract you from how bland the surface road movie inside the too-complex commentary of social universality. There is some haunting imagery but often, I was not sure whether to be disturbed, confused or moved - and most of the time, I wasn't able to sustain any of the three for what I'd refer to as a reasonably prolonged amount of time. The Art Garfunkel song that plays over the explanation (?) of the Black Rabbit is a perfect example of the film's artful befuddlement. (Q: Guess what I'm callin'?; A: Coin).