Fatal Attraction

*Just a little opening caveat: The next few films I review may strike you as really random or really outdated. I agree. My explanation for that is that they were required screenings for a grad school course, and since I have considerably less time to watch the latest theatrical releases at the cinema, these films are pretty much all I have to work with at the moment. Hopefully I'll be back with newer stuff next semester!*

Adrian Lyne's Fatal Attraction has the makings of a riveting thriller: strong actors, an original story (for it's time), aesthetically sound cinematography...even the hauntingly beautiful tunes of Madame Butterfly work well to accompany the building of suspense in many scenes, allowing us to forgive the blatant plot similarities between the film and the opera. Still, somehow, somewhere, something goes incredibly wrong. It all starts off intriguingly enough--attorney Dan Gallagher (Michael Douglas) indulges in a one-night stand with seductive Alex Forrest (Glenn Close) while his trophy wife, Beth (Anne Archer) and daughter Ellen are away for a weekend. Yet he soon realizes the terrifying consequences of his mistake when Alex turns obsessed and willing to resort to any means to make him hers.*

What's admirable about the film is that each actor manages to make his or her character sympathetic to some degree. Although you'd love to despise Douglas for his infidelity, he seems to genuinely regret the affair, as is evident in the way he overcompensates for his actions by suddenly turning into the perfect husband and father immediately afterwards: giving into the repeated requests of his daughter** for a pet rabbit, agreeing to buy the suburban house that his wife loves--we grudgingly understand that despite his mistake, his loyalties lie with his family and he may be getting dealt a rougher hand than he deserves. Anne Archer also wins us over with a sensible performance. While she's blithely unaware of anything amiss for the majority of the film, she doesn't come off as foolish; only trusting, as any wife should have the right to be. Most surprising, though, is that even Glenn Close earns our sympathy (well, at least until about two-thirds of the way into the plot, at which point you're alternately appalled and amused--more on that in a bit). In spite of her pathological tendencies, she portrays her loneliness with a vulnerability that manages to be fairly heart-wrenching, particularly when shots of her sitting alone by her lamp, flicking the light on and off, are juxtaposed with those of Douglas surrounded by his family and friends. However, the sympathy quickly wanes in the third act, when Lyne seems to lose interest in giving her character any nuances and lets her psychotic impulses take over.

Here's where the film slides downhill, going from thrillingly disturbing to ridiculously melodramatic and choppy. The scene where Close "kidnaps" the kid seems to have been inserted at random, while Douglas' confession to his wife is given far less consideration than it warrants. Anne Archer hardly has a chance to explode into an enraged outburst before the scene is rapidly cut short; the next time Douglas and Archer interact, things are back to being hunky-dory without the need for conversation or reflection on why they've found themselves in this situation at all. The film rapidly turns into a sequence of silly chases where we're made to wonder who will destroy whom first. Worst of all is an ending that is just too easy, and all-too reminiscent of the famous bathroom murder scene in Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho. Surely there must have been a better way to conclude the story than to simply kill off the offending character without any real psychological exploration into her motives.

I know that over the years, the film has achieved iconic status, and for those of you who loved it, I don't mean to rain on anyone's parade. But for me, there are just too many loose strings in the plot to really appreciate it. We're given barely any information about Alex's past; had there been some more exploration into her backstory, we would have been able to better understand the reason for her disturbed mentality. Additionally, it's difficult to believe that a character as decent as Dan--loving father, successful lawyer--would actually be unfaithful. Had there been some initial indication of dissatisfaction with his relationship with his wife, the affair would have been more credible, as we would have understood that there was a deeper reason behind it than just the allure of an attractive woman.*** Thus, while entertaining and, admittedly, capable of maintaining one's attention till the last frame, Fatal Attraction ultimately falls short, giving way to excessive and over-the-top violence, and ruining its potential to be taken too seriously.

* I mean, really, any means. Not to spoil the plot, but boiling pet bunnies is pretty extreme.

**did anyone else not realize until about halfway through the film that the kid was, in fact, a girl? I think I was distracted for a good 45 minutes of the plot because I was too busy trying to figure that out.

***and I'm sorry, but I'm really pushing it when I say Glenn Close is alluring and attractive.

A bit of a filmography...AKA I'm copping out because I don't have a movie to review this month.

My earliest memories include sleepovers at my grandparents' home, where my older sister and I were sent every other weekend for “quality time”. Without my parents to act as mediators of the conversation, our dinner table exchanges were usually amalgams of halting, ungrammatical Gujarati and fragmented English, neither generation sufficiently fluent in the other's language of choice. Our communication was awkward at best--until the plates were cleared away and we would troop behind my grandfather to a large cabinet, inside which lay rows of video cassettes, neatly nestled in colorful sleeves and arranged in order of descending height. With ceremonial solemnity, my sister and I would scour the shelves to select which Bollywood blockbuster would serve as our viewing pleasure that night. Thus marked the beginning of my fascination with film, which in turn, became the foundation of a relationship with my grandfather that erased all boundaries of age or language. With their intricately choreographed dance sequences, extravagant sets, and larger-than-life stars, these films took us to a place where we could reach a comfort level that didn’t rely on verbal eloquence. We’d get swept up in elaborate melodramas with the same wistful wonder, indulge in slapstick comedies with the same childlike mirth. My grandfather’s passion for them was infectious, and it was through him that I was first exposed to the genius of Satyajit Ray, the legend of Raj Kapoor, and the iconic celebrity of Amitabh Bachchan. Even years later, when my grasp of Gujarati had improved considerably and coherent conversations were no longer impossible, we preferred to let films speak for us. To this day, Indian cinema has remained my connection to him, as well as to the country I’m a native of, but have never lived in.

At the same time, I couldn’t ignore the community amidst which I did live. Growing up, anime took up a considerable portion of my evening television quota. At home, it wasn’t uncommon that an episode of the Full House might be followed by an hour of Sailor Moon*. My love for these quintessentially Japanese cartoons came in handy at school, where though my circle of friends included nationalities from Greece to Indonesia, my Japanese peers tended to fraternize amongst themselves, finding comfort in cultural intricacies that the rest of us weren't privy to. With anime, I was able to break through the shell that they had built around themselves, becoming a welcomed member at their lunch tables--and consequently, acquiring new friendships, a better grasp of contemporary Japanese vernacular and ultimately, some sense of belonging in an otherwise exclusive society.

My exposure to Hollywood began early, thanks to the foreign satellite dish installed in our apartment building, through which my mother would tape whatever late-night film she deemed appropriate enough for my sister and I to see**. As we got older, countless trips to the local video rental store, along with occasional splurges at the theater with friends, kept me updated on the industry's latest turnouts and gave me numerous--albeit occasionally glossed over and dramatic--snapshots of life in America, where I expected to eventually study. Along with my
interest in Indian films and Japanese anime, I developed a love for the classical narratives and technical finesse of American movies; once again, it was film that educated me in many of the trends, values, and conventions of a nation that, until that point, I had felt a flimsy connection to.

Looking back, I’ve become intrigued by my relationship with film, and have begun to seek ways to build upon it further. Attending a lecture given by Michael Moore on his controversial Fahrenheit 9/11, writing essays on the socio-economic motivations of the French New Wave***, touring popular filming locations during a summer program in London: my endeavors have only augmented my fascination with the kaleidoscopic nature of the medium-- the way in which, from various angles, films can be viewed as social commentaries, technological innovations, or vehicles of globalization. These ventures have allowed me to connect briefly with not only the cultures contiguous to my background, but those extending to peoples, areas, and issues that had once seemed alien and inaccessible to me.

And yet, I’m aware that I’ve only just begun with my ventures into the world of film. My next step is graduate school, which I’ll be starting this September; a two-year program at the New School from which I hope to gain a more sophisticated, refined grasp of cinema as cultural artifact. Only then can I expect to one day inspire others to regard it with a similar respect: to approach it not just as mindless entertainment that we passively observe, but as a stage for meaningful and eye-opening discourse in which we can actively participate.

*the adventures of a group of teenage girls, middle school students by day and magical defenders of the universe by night. Watch it. It’s awesome.
** Adventures of a Baby Sitter, My Girl, Home Alone….it’s really because of Mom that I wasn’t a total social outcast when I came to this country ☺
*** okay, okay--that one was because my film history class, junior year of college, forced me to.

He's Just Not That Into You

Maybe it was the cute little trailer promising that this would not be just another typical chick flick. Maybe it was because Valentine's Day was that weekend. Maybe it was that chilly wintry air that my friends and I used to classify as "boyfriend weather" in high school. Honestly, I've stopped looking for a reason; all I can say is that I'm a girl and sometimes I have to act like one--which is why, a few weeks ago, I found myself nestled in a midtown theater with good friend and fellow Michigan Film alumnus Maria, ready to finally discover why He's Just Not That
Into You.

Two hours and nine minutes later, I emerged from that dark auditorium without the foggiest idea. Far from being an expert in the field of romance, I had hoped that the multiple interconnected storylines of a group of Baltimore-based 30-somethings would provide some enlightening insight into matters of the heart--and abridge the "fine print", if you will, of male-female interaction in the era of Facebook and MySpace into explanations that made sense to both the Casanova and the romantic novice. But while HJNTIY undoubtedly has some witty one-liners and moments of thoughtful observation, it ultimately tries just a bit too hard and ends up being reminiscent of, though greatly inferior to, its British precursor, Love Actually.

But that's not to say that there weren't some entertaining and surprisingly pleasant performances. As clueless as her character is, Ginnifer Goodwin pulls off Gigi (a young copywriter on a perpetually unsuccessful but increasingly desperate lookout for Mr. Right) with a vulnerability that makes her at least slightly endearing in a role that would otherwise have come off as just head-bashingly annoying. Justin Long, as the smarty pants bartender who coaches Gigi through her dismal romantic pursuits, appears egotistic and predictable. Yet, he plays Alex with a certain charm that definitely caught me off guard, even managing to illicit an involuntary and teary-eyed "awww" out of me after his monologue at the climax of his story*. Jennifer Connelly delivers one of the few believable portrayals in the film as the victim of an unfaithful marriage while Bradley Cooper is appropriately despicable as her cheating husband. As for Scarlett Johanssen, as beautiful and talented as she may be, I miss her Lost in Translation days when she was able to impress us with her subtle yet striking performances, not her seduction scenes. With similar roles in Match Point and Vicki Cristina Barcelona, and sultry cameos in Justin Timberlake videos, her enchantress acts are getting rather old; I suggest she detours fast before being completely typecast as the "other woman". The rest of the ginormous cast, though competent, aren't particularly memorable. Ben Affleck is wasted in a blink-and-you'll-miss-him role, playing Jennifer Aniston's commitment-phobic boyfriend, while Jen herself seems stifled in a role that doesn't appear to have much depth. Likewise for Kevin Connolly, whose character (which can be summarized as the male version of Goodwin's) could have been omitted altogether. And Drew Barrymore...let's just say that while she does get to voice a great speech about the frustrating complexities of modern-day communication**, she should have stopped acting after E.T.

My understanding is that this film intended to break down relationships for its female audience, to debunk antique myths and misconceptions of dating decorum and provide honest, no-nonsense guidelines for how guys' minds really operate in an attempt to relieve girls of hours of torment over silent phones and empty inboxes. And what it actually did, to some extent (for me, at least), was the exact opposite. I was never one to agonize for very long over such frivolous things as the frequency of a potential suitor's text messages or the fact that he added me as a friend before I added him. But now, I fear that the obsessive dissecting of conversations and endless picking-apart of infinitesimal gestures by Gigi and gang has left me on the verge of becoming a neurotic basket case myself. I wouldn't be surprised if, after paying my Sprint bill over the phone tomorrow, I hang up convinced that even the way the machine-operated voice asks me to enter my pass code "means something".

I'm still slightly confused over the credibility of some of the claims that the film puts forth, and would really like to know whether it was accurate in terms of conveying the way men truly think--what do you say, guys? Is it, as we girls have believed for generations, a sign of
infatuation when you pull our pigtails on the playground or does it in fact mean that you genuinely hate us?

On the other hand, some of the lessons imparted seem to be kind of obvious. I mean, if your last five relationships have consisted of nothing more than Skype conversations--without webcams!--clearly, there was no future. And if a guy doesn't call you after a first date, of course he's not that into you. I don't need a bunch of exceptionally attractive celebrities (who've probably never experienced that humiliation in the first place) to tell me that.

So basically, I paid $12 for a whole lot of eye candy, though still none the wiser when it comes to deciphering the psyche of the alien-like male counterparts that we women happen to share our planet with. Next time my girly instincts strike, remind me that my eyebrow place is just around the corner.

*I know, I'm such a sap.
**Which, anyway, should be credited to screenwriters Abby Kohn and Marc Silverstein-not to Drew.

The Great Debaters

If you read my last post, you've probably surmised that for me, the acting is what makes or breaks a film. And lately, between my hesitance to shell out $12 at the theater and the dismal selection of alternatives on television*, it really feels like it's been too long since I was treated to an authentic, hard-hitting performance (and no, Christian Bale's hissy fit doesn't count).

Fortunately, my Netflix queue seemed to pick up on my thirst for true talent, and I was delighted that this week's red envelope supplied an abundance of it in the form of The Great Debaters. When you've got Oprah as one of your producers, you know that the film is probably going to come with some sort of social or moral lesson. And when that message is being relayed by powerhouses like Forest Whitaker and Denzel Washington--who also took on the director's role here--there's no way it won't come across loud and clear. Based on a true story, the movie follows the journey of a motley group of students, the debate team from all-black Wiley College in 1930s East Texas who, under the mentorship of Professor Melvin Tolson, battle racial discrimination and sexism to cap off an undefeated season with a national championship.

All right, so the premise does bear a striking resemblance to the formulaic plotlines of sports movies past where the underdog triumphs in the end-- except that in this case the footballs are swapped for encyclopedias and locker room speeches are replaced with eloquent soliloquies featuring poetry by Langston Hughes. But here, the sheer fervour with which it is conveyed makes it possible to forgive, even celebrate, the predictable message. Taking on the role of poet and professor by day, sharecropping union organizer by night, Denzel Washington just is Melvin Tolson, achieving a perfect balance of intellectual poise, paternal discipline, and inspirational persistence in the respective layers of his role. The minister father of one of the debaters, Forest Whitaker is pretty much perfect as James Farmer Sr. His contentious relationships with both his son and Tolson at first leave his character susceptible to an antagonistic label, but he ultimately injects his portrayal with such sympathy and integrity that you end up understanding and admiring him for his quiet courage.

And while I wasn't disappointed by two of the biggest talents in Hollywood, I was pleasantly surprised at how they stepped aside to let the young actors comprising the team shine. Denzel Whitaker*** as James Farmer Jr., the youngest member of the ensemble, emerges as the real hero. Expertly pairing the emotional turbulence of adolescence with a wisdom that extends beyond his 14 years, Whitaker plays Farmer with an intriguing combination of youthful energy and grounded maturity. Nate Parker is fiery, intelligent, and unapologetically outspoken as Henry Lowe**, and Jurnee Smollett as Samantha Booke, the first ever female debater on the team, is especially impressive when tackling the subject of racial integration in schools, with bold yet dignified delivery of arguments that enables her to hold her own both along her male teammates as well as against her white opponents. Clearly, that the actors are arguing about issues that probe so deeply into their personal histories has motivated such heartfelt performances.

I've been reading reviews complaining that the topics on which the debates are held are rather unoriginal--civil disobedience, feminism, racial discrimination, etc; okay, I concede that they aren't issues that don't already appear to have been beaten to a pulp. But again, the power with which the team makes their rebuttals breathes new life and validity into the seemingly "cliche" subjects. Remember that this is set in the 1930s, when equal education was an audaciously progressive idea and speaking out against white patriarchal society was considered unthinkably bold. Moreover, some subjects may not be as outdated as we think; for instance, as much as we'd like to believe that recent events have cured America of all forms of racial prejudice, a more realistic look**** (see both article AND comments for my point) shows that America has yet to truly acknowledge a history of discrimination that still retains much of its sting today.

Yet for all the nerves it might hit with its unflinching portrayal of the brutal injustices of the Jim Crow era and beyond--including a particularly disturbing scene involving the aftermath of a lynching--in the end, the film puts forth a positive message, that of a race being able to rejuvenate their own spirits and prove their worth. Through dedication, passion, and unrelenting energy, a team rises above circumstances against their favor to emerge as winners. Although it may sound trite, for me, The Great Debaters is ultimately a story offering hope--and I don't know about you, but right now, I'll take as much hope as I can get.




*Honestly, I don't CARE if Kim Kardashian broke a nail and it worries me that other people do.
**And it doesn't hurt that he's more than a little good looking.
***No relation to Washington or Forest. But wow, imagine the pressure, going through life as an actor with a name like that.
****and the fact that most major award events conveniently failed to recognize this well-deserving film

Slumdog Millionaire

--a little note before I begin: Unlike traditional reviews, I've chosen not to include a summary of the plot here, as I'm assuming that by this point everyone and their pet dog has seen--or at least read about--the movie. For those of you who for any reason have been living in a black hole for the past two months, here's a nifty link you may know about that will get you up to speed.-


Given my lukewarm reaction to the much-hyped Slumdog Millionaire, I deliberately planned not to write anything about it lest I got attacked in my sleep by die-hard fans of the film. But when Danny Boyle* and gang exuberantly swept up a whopping four Golden Globes at last weekend's event, I figured, heck, they can afford a not-so-positive review amidst the majority of genuflecting critics and public. So here's my two-cents on this year's sleeper hit--Slumdog lovers, you have been warned.

I'm exaggerating. It's not as if I hated it, or that I thought it was badly made. On the contrary, the film is a visual treat. Cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle blows you away with simultaneously breathtaking and appalling panoramas of the urban contradiction that is Mumbai, be it two young brothers bolting through the squalid slums of Dharavi as they attempt to flee a raging riot, a rusty train hurtling through lush landscapes, or towering skyscrapers rising above their impoverished surroundings. With its slickly cut montage sequences combined with a verite approach that would make Vertov proud, the movie is a stylistic marriage of romantic escapism and gritty realism.

Then again, I could be watching an Optimum Online commercial and still be entranced if its background music was composed by A.R Rahman. Although I've always been in complete awe of his brilliance, the man has outdone himself here. From the hauntingly poignant melody of "Latika's theme" to the intense and exhilerating drumbeats of "Oh..Saya", the score of Slumdog deifies Rahman to new levels of musical godliness--now there's a Golden Globe well-deserved.

Which is more than I can say for the recipients of the other three awards. As far as the screenplay goes, I agree that Vikas Swarup's novel Q&A wasn't exactly Hemingway and didn't provide much to work off of in terms of memorable dialogue, but I was hoping that Simon Beaufoy could use some of the wit he displayed with The Full Monty to whip up something at least halfway innovative. Instead, Slumdog is a textbook case of cliched beats and lines that often left me cringing and squirming to a point where the guy sitting next to me at the theater was probably kind of frightened. I mean, really--Latika: "And live on what?" Jamal: "Love." And that's supposed to be more gripping than the script of Frost/Nixon.
Seriously, Hollywood Foreign Press? Seriously??

Ironically, it's the children in the movie, without any acting experience whatsoever, who steal the show. With their heartbreaking innocence, the "young" Jamal and Salim deliver the only truly genuine portrayals in the film (I'm guessing that actually having lived in Dharavi has something to do with that.) As for the real actors: Dev Patel, bless his cute-as-a-button self, needs to decide on an accent. Half the time he seems so preoccupied with keeping his British articulation to a minimum in order to come across as more "Indian" that the whole thing blows up in his face and he just ends up appearing confused and completely out of character. Anil Kapoor**, on the other hand, is so much in character that I was surprised Mr. Boyle didn't tell him to tone the blatant overacting down a bit for fear that he'd have a stroke on set. And unfortunately, Frieda Pinto has little to offer apart from a charming smile and good hair. Now, if I was paying attention in my Film 290 class, I believe the director is largely responsible for drawing out believable depictions from his or her talent. One simply can't expect me to buy that Mr. Boyle got a better performance out of this cast than Sam Mendes did out of Kate Winslet or Leonardo DiCaprio. Please.

Nor did he succeed in adapting the novel to create a believable story or credible characters. Older brother Salim sways irritatingly between protective affection and traitorous contempt for Jamal. Also, I'm sorry, but kids don't come out of the most destitute slum in India with an impeccable grasp of English. They just don't. And there's no way that one kid witnesses his mother's murder, escapes being blinded by gangsters, loses his lover twice, scavenges his way through childhood, and gets unfairly beaten up by corrupt policemen--and even if he did, it's highly unlikely that he'd come out of all that with the heart of gold that Jamal apparently possesses.

I don't mean to be the party pooper here. Having grown up on some of the most ridiculous of Bollywood blockbusters, I'm all for indulging in the occasional idealism or extravagance of a fairy tale plot. But there's a difference between "feel good" entertainment and naive misconstruction, and at many points it seems as though Boyle has taken his audience to be a group of fools, ready to accept anything as long as it's punctuated with a cute dance number***.

So although I can't deny the feeling of pride that came over me as I wached a film based in India garnering such praise at the Golden Globes****, let's be realistic here. A hackneyed storyline and overkill acting does not a Best Picture make, and as applaudable as its intentions were, this just isn't the movie of the year. One can only hope that future juries realize this before the next batch of awards --read, the Oscars--are handed out and Slumdog Millionaire once again walks away with accolades that belong to a cast and crew that truly merit it. And now if you will excuse me, I'm going to go buy a baseball bat to keep beside my bed tonight.


*I had pictured him to be a youngish, well-built stud of anEnglishman--I mean come on, we're talking about the guy behind the teen cult-creating Trainspotting here! Imagine my surprise when this guy scurried on stage to claim his statuette.

**Now this is an actor I've watched since I was about three. He's got some exceptional films and incredible performances to his credit and I wanted so much to like him in this movie. But I only got so far as 5000 rupees before I wanted to wring his smarmy neck.

***Although you have to hand it to Dev Patel here--the boy can move!

**** Right. As if I had anything at all to do with making the movie.

Happy New Year!!

Not to be all Bridget Jones about life, but there really isn't a better time than January 1st (or 10th, in this case--got hit with a serious case of the lazies for the first week of the year, which probably doesn't bode well for my resolution to start this thing) to begin a blog, no? After spending the latter half of 2008 fumbling my way around New York in a haze of post-undergrad confusion, finding--then quitting--an internship, then landing myself an even less satisfying one that kept me inadequately occupied for a mere two days a week, I was turning into the sort of person I always prided myself on NOT being; waking up at 11am, going to bed past 2, and whiling away the hours in between watching Giada whip up yet another mascarpone-laden dessert or checking my facebook wall about 38,769,508,621 times a minute in the hopes that SOMEONE would deem me worthy enough to write to. After noticing a sizeable imprint on my secondhand couch and developing serious concerns about discovering mold on my fingertips, I decided that the pathetic madness had to stop. So. I got myself back on mandy.com/entertainmentcareers.net/all those other web-based beacons of hope for us poor and unemployed film majors, bagged a second internship at a casting company, made a 10-day escape to India, escaped BACK to NYC when I realized that accompanying my mother to every sari shop in Mumbai wasn't my idea of a vacation, experienced my first new year's eve in the Big Apple, and am generally feeling rather pumped up for 2009.

This year I'm determined not to set myself up for failure with a series of unrealistic expectations that leave me a) broke*, b) stuck in an apartment filled with half-finished household projects**, or c) put off by anything male that moves***. Which brings me to the motivation behind this blog. Along with a slew of other resolutions (going to bed before midnight and FINALLY getting my driver's license at the embarassingly old age of 22, to name a few), this time I want to put my four years of studying "Screen Arts and Cultures" at the University of Michigan to use while awaiting the results of my grad school applications. While I would love to be known as the next Roger Ebert ten years down the line, I admit that right now I'm a bit of a chicken when it comes to putting my views out there in writing for the world to see. Not to mention that neither of my unpaid internships really cover weekly visits to the Angelika. And so, in a humble effort to revive the art of film criticism that Ebert himself claims has given way to "lascivious gossips, covering invented beats", I'm recording my own appraisals of pretty much any film or television piece that inspires me to write: Bollywood, Hollywood, artsy flick, commercial blockbuster--anything is fair game here. Although I in no way claim to possess the literary aptitude of my sister--whose prose is reaching a level that, in my opinon, is beginning to make Sukhetu Mehta look like Dr. Seuss--I'm going to give this a shot. Therefore, this entry serves primarily as an introduction to what will, with any luck, become a veritable treasure trove of meaningful, profound cinematic reflection. Or, at least, just a reservoir of my random musings over the films I've seen, both past and present. Stay tuned.



* SO CLOSE to setting up that cardboard box in Central Park.
**For instance, I've yet to purchase window drapes for the one-bedroom I signed a lease for last June.
***I'm not elaborating on this one.