When I was 7, I bought an issue of X-Men. It was the third issue of Chris Claremont and Jim Lee's reboot series and was it ever beautiful. Magneto was on the front with the X-Men lying at his feet, cables and wires flying around his head. He looked so cool . . . When my brother saw my purchase, he made me promise not to look at the back cover. I had no idea why he asked me to do this, but when you're 7 and your brother is 14, you do what he tells you to do. It wasn't until my eighth birthday that I discovered my brother's plan. Sitting in our messy living room, eating my mom's amazing white cake, I unwrapped a new Cyclops toy! I had no idea the X-Men toys even existed because my brother made sure I never saw the advertisement on the back of my X-Men comic book. I have never been more surprised.
Even when my brother and I were young and pretty combative with one another, X-Men was always a serious connection between us. Out of all the menagerie of mutant heroes, Wolverine was our favorite. He could be burned, shot, or stabbed, and all his wounds just closed up. A quick flex of his forearms and...Snikt! Adamantium claws popped out. Wolverine drank and smoked and didn't take crap from anybody. For two blond-haired geeks, he was someone to admire. Thinking back on those days, Wolverine was really like our third brother; a hairy, surly, immortal brother.
I'm sure many comic fans have similar stories in regard to their favorite heroes. Everyone has their own personal relationship with characters like Spiderman, Batman, and Wolverine. This would explain why, no matter how commercially or critically successful a comic book film may be, there is always that one nerd who will take offense at some minor or major detail. Batman's ears are too long! That's not how Frank Miller drew him! Wait, the webbing doesn't come out of Spider-man's wrists! It comes from web-shooters! Yeah, comic fans can be pretty anal, but they've been generally pleased with Hugh Jackman's cinematic portrayal of Wolverine. Through the good (X-2: X-Men United), to the bad (X-Men 3: The Last Stand), to the abysmal (X-Men Origins:Wolverine), Jackman has wowed with his physicality, intensity, and perfect haircut. His Wolverine has been the high point of all six films his character has starred in. This is also true in The Wolverine, a weak and tolerable addition to the X-Men film series.
The Wolverine is the type of film you forget about the minute you leave the theater. I saw Michael Haneke's Amore six months ago, and I still have those dramatic scenes running around in my skull. I saw The Wolverine one hour ago, and I couldn't tell you what happened. The gist is: Wolverine goes to Japan. He meets a girl. He fights some ninjas and a giant mechanical samurai. And that's it. The script is as messy as your normal Hollywood film, with an unnecessarily convoluted plot and lame twists. Narrative clarity and character motivation are not a priority in The Wolverine. It's long boring dialogue scenes interspersed with some not so eye-opening action scenes. Too bad.
Still, out of all the X-Men films, The Wolverine gets the character right. Well, I should say the film presents a Wolverine close to the one my brother and I grew up with. In The Wolverine, Logan is not nice. He throws criminals off of balconies and slices confessions out of yakuza thugs. His vocabulary is the dirtiest yet without being rated-R material. There are some nice comedic bits that capture the sarcastic and humorous side of the character. One particular scene involves Logan at a pay-by-the-hour hotel. As always, Jackman has perfect timing, and many of these scenes are memorable vignettes surrounded by a forgettable story.
It is not surprising to see James Mangold at the helm on this film. A true director-for-hire, Mangold has never established a recognizable authorial style. From Identity to Kate & Leopold to Knight and Day, it's hard to see an artistic throughline. From an industry perspective, he's probably considered a director with a wide "range." From a critical perspective, he doesn't have much to say. So much of The Wolverine feels like Mangold doesn't want to make decisions. The whole thing seems very general. It is disappointing considering Mangold directed Cop Land, one of the best crime films of the last two decades. The Wolverine and all his other Hollywood drivel don't come close to that amazing film.
I could go on to talk about the made-for-TV cinematography or the cartoonish green screen action set-pieces. However, I really can't complain when I get to spend two hours with my bro Wolverine. The film is pretty lifeless, but it's always fun to see Jackman cutting up bad guys with Adamantium claws. And, it's nice to remember some good times with my real brother, when surprise was still a possibility in my life.
Friday, July 26, 2013
Saturday, July 20, 2013
The Conjuring
So, I guess you would call me a believer. Throw any kind of myth or urban legend at me and I'll probably believe it. I was raised in a liberal yet religious family, so I was taught, on one hand, to think outside the box and, on the other, to recognize that there is so much going on in this world that I cannot see with my own two eyes. My mom thinks that the Loch Ness Monster exists. My dad says that many years ago, he saw the ghost of a Colonial washer woman. I believe both of them. People may ask how a religious family can believe in such nonsense. How can we not? If you believe anything that happens in the Old or New Testament, you have to believe in ghosts, zombies, and demons. The Bible is basically a big, supernatural epic. Lazarus rises from his grave like an Old World George Romero zombie. Jesus pulls demons out of the possessed, putting Max Von Sydow to shame. In the end, you're either a believer or you're not.
Considering my lifelong romance with cinema, my beliefs make sense. Cinema, like any other narrative art form, asks us to believe or, at least, suspend our disbelief. When the curtains draw back and the lights dim, we are invited to enter another reality, to believe that this story is really happening. We forget that these are just actors wearing costumes. We forget that they are reading lines from a script and that there is a large crew of people standing behind the camera. As a critic, I'm supposed to have one foot in the door and one out. I need to be involved in the story so that I can write about my experience, but I can't become so immersed that I lose my critical eye. Well, I'm supposed to. It's difficult to stay objective and critical when watching a transporting and terrifying film like The Conjuring.
I've been watching horror films for twenty-five years, and it really takes a skillful director to scare the pants off of me. James Wan is one such director. The guy didn't have the most auspicious of beginnings as a filmmaker. His first two films, Saw and Death Sentence, are laughable pieces of genre filmmaking. Dead Silence has some frightening moments, but the characters are embarrassingly one-dimensional. It wasn't until 2011's Insidious that Wan reached his stride. Insidious made my best friend cry when she saw it. She was shaking and hiding behind a pillow. It was great...I'll have to make sure to show her The Conjuring. She'll probably need therapy after she sees it. I'm a bad friend...
Man, this movie is really, really scary. Any good horror film is really a compilation of vignettes. The Conjuring is no different and boasts a number of entertaining and horrifying sequences. One such sequence takes place in the basement of a haunted house. A paranormal investigator finds herself alone in the dark, dank basement. She begins to hear a low cackling and then sees a hanging body making its way toward her. This is not a "boo" moment, but instead a crescendo of terror. The end of the film is also a frightening sequence presented with great skill. As an evil entity takes possession of a central character, the sounds of demons and unearthly beings begin to grow in volume. Items begin to move in the air and the possessed figure begins to levitate. We have seen scenes like this before, in The Exorcist and The Last Exorcism, but there is a freshness to Wan's presentation.
The film feels so fresh because of how little Wan employs digital effects as scare tactics. So many horror films today look like gore-soaked cartoons. Instead of using computer generated images, The Conjuring makes great use of filmmaking fundamentals. Wan uses light and shadow to hide and reveal monstrous figures and other frightening elements. His framing is dynamic and he creates a sense of unease with the placement of actors, props, and set dressing. Wan also shoots a great bit of the film in long takes, and his blocking and camera movement create an atmosphere of fearful expectation. The rest of the film is edited with great precision. It all feels quite mathematical, and you can imagine Wan counting out beats in the editing suite.
There are breaks from the scary stuff, and these are filled with great characters. Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga are amazing as Ed and Lorraine Warren. They both bring great humanity and comedy to their roles. Farmiga conveys the dark history of her character with simple eye movements and tortured body language. Lily Taylor and Ron Livingston are lovable as the tenants of the haunted house. Horror is so much more effective when we care about those involved. Wan gives us many characters to identify with and root for when the spirits come calling.
The Conjuring also feels very relevant as it tells the story of a family stuck in a house they don't want. The story of this family feels reminiscent of contemporary families fooled by predatory lenders and immoral realtors. In The Conjuring, unseen forces have evil plans for a happy family. How similar are these unseen forces to the machinations of Wall Street prospectors? How many families feel that they have no control over their own homes? The film, whether intentional or not, is an interesting exploration of property economics and themes of home and family.
In the end though, The Conjuring is just a scary movie. For a film that exhibits such fine film craft, it's easy to forget the inner workings of the film. It’s easy to forget that this is just a movie. And, for 106 minutes, it's easy to just believe.
Considering my lifelong romance with cinema, my beliefs make sense. Cinema, like any other narrative art form, asks us to believe or, at least, suspend our disbelief. When the curtains draw back and the lights dim, we are invited to enter another reality, to believe that this story is really happening. We forget that these are just actors wearing costumes. We forget that they are reading lines from a script and that there is a large crew of people standing behind the camera. As a critic, I'm supposed to have one foot in the door and one out. I need to be involved in the story so that I can write about my experience, but I can't become so immersed that I lose my critical eye. Well, I'm supposed to. It's difficult to stay objective and critical when watching a transporting and terrifying film like The Conjuring.
I've been watching horror films for twenty-five years, and it really takes a skillful director to scare the pants off of me. James Wan is one such director. The guy didn't have the most auspicious of beginnings as a filmmaker. His first two films, Saw and Death Sentence, are laughable pieces of genre filmmaking. Dead Silence has some frightening moments, but the characters are embarrassingly one-dimensional. It wasn't until 2011's Insidious that Wan reached his stride. Insidious made my best friend cry when she saw it. She was shaking and hiding behind a pillow. It was great...I'll have to make sure to show her The Conjuring. She'll probably need therapy after she sees it. I'm a bad friend...
Man, this movie is really, really scary. Any good horror film is really a compilation of vignettes. The Conjuring is no different and boasts a number of entertaining and horrifying sequences. One such sequence takes place in the basement of a haunted house. A paranormal investigator finds herself alone in the dark, dank basement. She begins to hear a low cackling and then sees a hanging body making its way toward her. This is not a "boo" moment, but instead a crescendo of terror. The end of the film is also a frightening sequence presented with great skill. As an evil entity takes possession of a central character, the sounds of demons and unearthly beings begin to grow in volume. Items begin to move in the air and the possessed figure begins to levitate. We have seen scenes like this before, in The Exorcist and The Last Exorcism, but there is a freshness to Wan's presentation.
The film feels so fresh because of how little Wan employs digital effects as scare tactics. So many horror films today look like gore-soaked cartoons. Instead of using computer generated images, The Conjuring makes great use of filmmaking fundamentals. Wan uses light and shadow to hide and reveal monstrous figures and other frightening elements. His framing is dynamic and he creates a sense of unease with the placement of actors, props, and set dressing. Wan also shoots a great bit of the film in long takes, and his blocking and camera movement create an atmosphere of fearful expectation. The rest of the film is edited with great precision. It all feels quite mathematical, and you can imagine Wan counting out beats in the editing suite.
There are breaks from the scary stuff, and these are filled with great characters. Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga are amazing as Ed and Lorraine Warren. They both bring great humanity and comedy to their roles. Farmiga conveys the dark history of her character with simple eye movements and tortured body language. Lily Taylor and Ron Livingston are lovable as the tenants of the haunted house. Horror is so much more effective when we care about those involved. Wan gives us many characters to identify with and root for when the spirits come calling.
The Conjuring also feels very relevant as it tells the story of a family stuck in a house they don't want. The story of this family feels reminiscent of contemporary families fooled by predatory lenders and immoral realtors. In The Conjuring, unseen forces have evil plans for a happy family. How similar are these unseen forces to the machinations of Wall Street prospectors? How many families feel that they have no control over their own homes? The film, whether intentional or not, is an interesting exploration of property economics and themes of home and family.
In the end though, The Conjuring is just a scary movie. For a film that exhibits such fine film craft, it's easy to forget the inner workings of the film. It’s easy to forget that this is just a movie. And, for 106 minutes, it's easy to just believe.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Pacific Rim
Like most children, I was obsessed with dinosaurs. I remember digging in my backyard, hoping to find even the smallest evidence of an Ankylosaurus or of my favorite dinosaur, the Allosaurus. The Allosaurus is like a smaller, faster Tyrannosaurus Rex and he could bust some serious heads. Reminiscing on my paleontologist past, I think I understand my passion and perhaps most children's passion for those scaly, walking monsters. When I was a child, the world felt like a big, strange place. From the low vantage point of three feet, everything loomed over me and seemed ready to topple down on my brittle body. Like most children, I had no real control over my daily life. I could only get food through my parents and go outside only with their permission. How envious I was then of the Allosaurus, stomping where he pleased and chomping down on any poor creature that crossed its path. That was control. That was power.
I wouldn't be surprised if Guillermo Del Toro spent his youth sifting through the dirt, searching for prehistoric fossils. Watching Del Toro's newest film, Pacific Rim, I connected with that three-foot tall, toe-headed youth. Though I stand at a staggering 6 feet 7 inches now, I felt very small in the theater, looking up at giant robots fighting 10-story dimensional invaders. Absent in so many blockbusters is a sense of awe and amazement. We have become cynical and unimpressed by expensive special effects. Oh, that space ship just disintegrated in a black hole? Big deal. That truck transformed into a talking robot. What's on the next channel? Yep, we've seen it all and it takes a truly talented director to make us look up and gasp in amazement. It takes a director like Guillermo Del Toro to make us feel like kids.
All of Del Toro's films deal with themes of childhood in supernatural settings. In the frightening The Devil's Backbone, a young orphan unravels a ghostly mystery while coming to terms with his own isolation. In the beautiful Pan's Labyrinth, a small girl escapes into a fantasy world as her country is ravaged by revolution and war. Even Del Toro's comic book films, Blade II and the Hellboy series, feature monstrous orphan protagonists trying to find their place in a "normal" world. And now we have Pacific Rim, Del Toro's biggest budget film to date. While the story doesn't deal with those same childhood themes, it feels like Del Toro's childhood imagination, perhaps our collective childhood imagination, played out on the screen.
The story of Pacific Rim is simple. Big robots fight big monsters to save the world. And...that's it. In a different context, this would be a criticism. However, after a summer full of films with lame plot twists, uneven characters, and ostentatious direction, it is refreshing to see a straightforward story depicted with such confidence and clarity. Pacific Rim is basically a mosaic of blockbuster and Anime clichés, but Del Toro embraces them with great affection, giving the film an earnest and fun atmosphere. True, some jokes die and some lines are drizzled with cheese, but Del Toro knows what his story is and he presents it in a streamlined yet nuanced way. He also knows that his audience came to see robots punching monsters in the face. And he gives it to them.
Del Toro has a great eye for scale. In the Transformers films, Michael Bay never really learned how to capture the scale of his Autobots and Decepticons. A director with a long history in the visual arts, Del Toro places small human figures next to his fighting machines to truly show their towering height. The robots and monsters are also often shown from extremely low angles. The director even places his virtual camera on the backs of the shambling monsters, exhibiting their great power. These seem like simple tricks, but they are ignored by so many action directors. Del Toro understands that it’s the small things that make a film feel big.
And the action itself is no less big. When metal clashes with alien flesh, you can feel the impact. The action choreography is over-the-top, but still grounded by physics. The computer generated creatures move slowly, with great effort. As in all his films, Del Toro is fascinated by moving gears. He shows the turning cogs and pumping pistons. We see what drives these machines and the weight of their power. The editing moves at a similar pace, and we can actually see what is happening. Del Toro allows us to relish the beautiful carnage. This isn't the clashing, confusing mess of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, or the epileptic editing of a Christopher Nolan fight scene. These are confident, exciting tableaus painted by an expert hand.
In his English-speaking films, Del Toro has never been as expert when it comes to directing actors. That is the true weak point of the film. As the film's protagonist Raleigh Becket, Charlie Hunnam is disappointing. I have never understood the hype surrounding Hunnam. He's good looking, sure, but his voice is annoying and his delivery repetitive. He's like this middle school teacher I had. Everyone liked him. The girls wanted to date him and the guys wanted to be like him. I just sat in the back row making fun of his poor pedagogy. And he couldn't even draw...Sorry. Hunnam's definitely less annoying than that guy. It's nice to see Ron Perlman back with Del Toro again. Perlman has been present since the director's first film, Cronos. In Pacific Rim, he plays a black market dealer in monster entrails. He's not in the film much, but he steals all his scenes. Charlie Day is also funny as a monster biologist who has clearly had too much coffee.
And, finally, the film is truly lucky to have Idris Elba aboard. Elba portrays Stacker Pentecost, the head of the robot fighting army. Isn't that a badass name? It makes Lee Marvin sound like he should be a cashier at Staples. As always, Elba gives an intense and amusing performance. He carries himself with an air of great authority and he delivers even the most poorly-written militaristic dialogue with great gusto and skill. He gets to deliver his own version of Henry V's St. Crispin's Day Speech. The writing is pretty crappy in comparison to the Bard, but Elba sells it. I got chills, even though I was laughing.
That's the sign of true skill in Hollywood — a director who can take what appears to be a generic lame property and turn it into something special. Pacific Rim is by no means Guillermo Del Toro's best film. In fact, it's probably one of his worst. Still, compared to the utter detritus that passes for big budget movies these days, it's downright brilliant. Del Toro hasn't lost touch with his inner child and we're all the better for it. For two hours, I got to stare up at creatures who exhibit great control and power. As an adult, when everything still feels pretty out of control, it's a nice feeling.
I wouldn't be surprised if Guillermo Del Toro spent his youth sifting through the dirt, searching for prehistoric fossils. Watching Del Toro's newest film, Pacific Rim, I connected with that three-foot tall, toe-headed youth. Though I stand at a staggering 6 feet 7 inches now, I felt very small in the theater, looking up at giant robots fighting 10-story dimensional invaders. Absent in so many blockbusters is a sense of awe and amazement. We have become cynical and unimpressed by expensive special effects. Oh, that space ship just disintegrated in a black hole? Big deal. That truck transformed into a talking robot. What's on the next channel? Yep, we've seen it all and it takes a truly talented director to make us look up and gasp in amazement. It takes a director like Guillermo Del Toro to make us feel like kids.
All of Del Toro's films deal with themes of childhood in supernatural settings. In the frightening The Devil's Backbone, a young orphan unravels a ghostly mystery while coming to terms with his own isolation. In the beautiful Pan's Labyrinth, a small girl escapes into a fantasy world as her country is ravaged by revolution and war. Even Del Toro's comic book films, Blade II and the Hellboy series, feature monstrous orphan protagonists trying to find their place in a "normal" world. And now we have Pacific Rim, Del Toro's biggest budget film to date. While the story doesn't deal with those same childhood themes, it feels like Del Toro's childhood imagination, perhaps our collective childhood imagination, played out on the screen.
The story of Pacific Rim is simple. Big robots fight big monsters to save the world. And...that's it. In a different context, this would be a criticism. However, after a summer full of films with lame plot twists, uneven characters, and ostentatious direction, it is refreshing to see a straightforward story depicted with such confidence and clarity. Pacific Rim is basically a mosaic of blockbuster and Anime clichés, but Del Toro embraces them with great affection, giving the film an earnest and fun atmosphere. True, some jokes die and some lines are drizzled with cheese, but Del Toro knows what his story is and he presents it in a streamlined yet nuanced way. He also knows that his audience came to see robots punching monsters in the face. And he gives it to them.
Del Toro has a great eye for scale. In the Transformers films, Michael Bay never really learned how to capture the scale of his Autobots and Decepticons. A director with a long history in the visual arts, Del Toro places small human figures next to his fighting machines to truly show their towering height. The robots and monsters are also often shown from extremely low angles. The director even places his virtual camera on the backs of the shambling monsters, exhibiting their great power. These seem like simple tricks, but they are ignored by so many action directors. Del Toro understands that it’s the small things that make a film feel big.
And the action itself is no less big. When metal clashes with alien flesh, you can feel the impact. The action choreography is over-the-top, but still grounded by physics. The computer generated creatures move slowly, with great effort. As in all his films, Del Toro is fascinated by moving gears. He shows the turning cogs and pumping pistons. We see what drives these machines and the weight of their power. The editing moves at a similar pace, and we can actually see what is happening. Del Toro allows us to relish the beautiful carnage. This isn't the clashing, confusing mess of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, or the epileptic editing of a Christopher Nolan fight scene. These are confident, exciting tableaus painted by an expert hand.
In his English-speaking films, Del Toro has never been as expert when it comes to directing actors. That is the true weak point of the film. As the film's protagonist Raleigh Becket, Charlie Hunnam is disappointing. I have never understood the hype surrounding Hunnam. He's good looking, sure, but his voice is annoying and his delivery repetitive. He's like this middle school teacher I had. Everyone liked him. The girls wanted to date him and the guys wanted to be like him. I just sat in the back row making fun of his poor pedagogy. And he couldn't even draw...Sorry. Hunnam's definitely less annoying than that guy. It's nice to see Ron Perlman back with Del Toro again. Perlman has been present since the director's first film, Cronos. In Pacific Rim, he plays a black market dealer in monster entrails. He's not in the film much, but he steals all his scenes. Charlie Day is also funny as a monster biologist who has clearly had too much coffee.
And, finally, the film is truly lucky to have Idris Elba aboard. Elba portrays Stacker Pentecost, the head of the robot fighting army. Isn't that a badass name? It makes Lee Marvin sound like he should be a cashier at Staples. As always, Elba gives an intense and amusing performance. He carries himself with an air of great authority and he delivers even the most poorly-written militaristic dialogue with great gusto and skill. He gets to deliver his own version of Henry V's St. Crispin's Day Speech. The writing is pretty crappy in comparison to the Bard, but Elba sells it. I got chills, even though I was laughing.
That's the sign of true skill in Hollywood — a director who can take what appears to be a generic lame property and turn it into something special. Pacific Rim is by no means Guillermo Del Toro's best film. In fact, it's probably one of his worst. Still, compared to the utter detritus that passes for big budget movies these days, it's downright brilliant. Del Toro hasn't lost touch with his inner child and we're all the better for it. For two hours, I got to stare up at creatures who exhibit great control and power. As an adult, when everything still feels pretty out of control, it's a nice feeling.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
The Lone Ranger
Growing up in rural Indiana, I didn't receive the most accurate history education. In that wonderful Red State, most elementary teachers pass on only the most simplified version of history. Thomas Jefferson was a great guy. He could write very well. Thomas Edison was a genius. He invented the light bulb. Look at the ceiling; everything would be dark without that forward thinking inventor. Later in my life, I discovered that these histories were more fiction than fact. Wait, Thomas Jefferson owned slaves? That's weird...Thomas Edison was just a dick who stole other people's ideas? Bummer. Over time, I learned that the distance between legend and fact is truly large.
Ours is a country built on simplified legends. The pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock and became best buddies with the indigenous population. The founding fathers broke away from England because of a desire for freedom. And, in the wild, savage lands of the American West, lone gunmen tamed the arid landscape into a prosperous, civilized country. What a wonderful fantasy. Here was a time when all men carried shooting irons on their hips. If we had guns on our hips today, there would obviously be violence in America because the good guys would just shoot the bad guys. Simple. The Native Americans were all savages so it was only self defense when we so generously gifted them with smallpox-infected blankets. Wait. . . For many people in America, the Wild West days are days to be longed for. Times were simpler then, and good Christian men could walk down the street with their heads held high.
The Western can be a dangerous genre because it can reinforce our nationalistic feelings of righteousness and destinies made manifest. On the other hand, the Western can do so much more. It can explore the time when half our country was civilized by railroad barons, hard men, and Christian missionaries. In the stripped-bare environment of the American West, the themes of civilization, law, and nationalism come easily to the forefront. In the great Westerns of John Ford, Anthony Mann, and Sam Peckinpah, the directors consider the blurred line between myth and reality. Films like The Searchers, Winchester '73, and The Wild Bunch show that America was founded by violent men and that bad guys don't always wear black.
On this Fourth of July, the release of an epic Western was, at first, worrying, Seeing the trailers for The Lone Ranger, I'll admit that I was skeptical. I expected this to be some eye-rolling, pro-America trash. I'm happy to say I was proven wrong. Gore Verbinski's latest blockbuster displays a critical and nuanced vision of the American West. While there are some offensive ethnic representations, the Native Americans are more than noble savages or murderous braves and the railroad tycoons have more in mind than just Western expansion. At a time of year when we celebrate our great nation, it is good to be reminded that our country was founded by strong men stealing the land and resources of weaker men.
Since the ideologies of The Lone Ranger are so pleasing, it is sad that the movie isn't better. It falls into the all-familiar Hollywood trap of homage overshadowing original narrative. If you are looking for a mosaic of classic Western references, look no further than The Lone Ranger. Verbinski makes nods to a number of Western films. In the beginning of the film, a missionary choir warbles through the hymn "Shall We Gather at the River." Fans of the genre will remember this hymn from nearly every Sam Peckinpah film. On his train ride into Texas, Armee Hammer reads a law book, a familiar image from The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. Hans Zimmer's score takes numerous cues from the films scores of Ennio Morricone. The film feels like a mash-up of the best of the genre and has nothing new to offer.
The narrative is simple, but narrative efficiency is not the name of the game in The Lone Ranger. With a clunky, unfunny frame story and weak character exposition stuffed into the first act, the story takes a long time to get up to speed. It's like some old steam engine trying to chug-chug-chug through a boring story. Thinking back on the film, not much happens. There are some shoot-outs and speeding horses, but these action set pieces are few and far between. They are broken up by what feels like hours of the Lone Ranger and Tonto riding through the desert. They talk. A lot. And it's boring.
When the action does happen, it is mostly exciting. This has always been Verbinski's strong suit. In the original Pirates of the Caribbean, he recaptured the charm of a Douglas Fairbanks or Errol Flynn swashbuckling adventure. While The Lone Ranger never reaches the heights of that film, it has some memorable moments. The two heroes outrun a burning, flipping steam-engine. The Lone Ranger rides his horse, Silver, over buildings and onto the top of a moving train. Bullets whiz and pop off rocks and iron walls. Verbinski shows that he still has a firm grasp on action movie filmmaking.
As in all of Verbinski's films, the production design is the true highlight. Like Ridley Scott, Verbinski jams the frame with costumes, props, and witty details. Verbinski was lucky to have production designer Jess Gonchor on his team. Gonchor is no stranger to the Western. Having applied his talents to No Country for Old Men and True Grit, he was the perfect choice for The Lone Ranger. Every set is filled with visual flourishes and the costumes exhibit more character than the actors. Gonchor's design for a travelling sideshow/brothel is particularly striking. Old painted signs span the main thoroughfare and painted ladies swing from the ceiling. Fire and gaslight give the scene a warm, sepia glow. The whole film is covered in a fine layer of grit and, like the films of Sam Peckinpah; The Lone Ranger is a very tactile film. I could feel the heat on my skin and the sand in my shoes. For all its faults, it is an immersive film.
Verbinski's other strong suit has always been off-beat characters. Johnny Depp's Jack Sparrow is one of the great original film characters of recent years. In The Lone Ranger, Verbinski and Depp have attempted to create another weird and funny sidekick in the figure of Tonto. Depp lends his usual grace and comedic physicality to the role, but Tonto never really gets anywhere as a character. He comes across more as somewhat racist caricature and his constant goofy gestures become annoying. Armee Hammer offers no help. Hammer was decent in The Social Network, but he has failed to impress me since then. His turn as John Reid in The Lone Ranger is flat and laughable. True, he is good looking and his teeth are pearly white. Did they have whitening strips back then? He delivers his lines in an earnest manner and kills every joke before it leaves his lips. He has perhaps the best diction I have ever seen. He bites off every word and he could definitely say "Rubber Baby Buggy Bumpers" ten times fast. You can sure understand everything he has to say, but you don't really want to.
In the end, it's just bloated and boring. It's disappointing because Verbinski's Oscar-winning Rango was a wonderful tribute to the Western as well as an entertaining story. The Lone Ranger could use a sweat suit and trash bags like the wrestlers at my high school used to wear. Maybe it could sweat off some of the excess and find its narrative again. Still, it's nice to know that audiences will maybe be asked to think about their history in a more critical way. Maybe they will pause, sparkler in hand, and consider everyone who has fallen under the march of Western progress. Or, maybe they'll just strap a shiny gun to their hip and walk around Wal-Mart, just like they did in the Old West.
Ours is a country built on simplified legends. The pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock and became best buddies with the indigenous population. The founding fathers broke away from England because of a desire for freedom. And, in the wild, savage lands of the American West, lone gunmen tamed the arid landscape into a prosperous, civilized country. What a wonderful fantasy. Here was a time when all men carried shooting irons on their hips. If we had guns on our hips today, there would obviously be violence in America because the good guys would just shoot the bad guys. Simple. The Native Americans were all savages so it was only self defense when we so generously gifted them with smallpox-infected blankets. Wait. . . For many people in America, the Wild West days are days to be longed for. Times were simpler then, and good Christian men could walk down the street with their heads held high.
The Western can be a dangerous genre because it can reinforce our nationalistic feelings of righteousness and destinies made manifest. On the other hand, the Western can do so much more. It can explore the time when half our country was civilized by railroad barons, hard men, and Christian missionaries. In the stripped-bare environment of the American West, the themes of civilization, law, and nationalism come easily to the forefront. In the great Westerns of John Ford, Anthony Mann, and Sam Peckinpah, the directors consider the blurred line between myth and reality. Films like The Searchers, Winchester '73, and The Wild Bunch show that America was founded by violent men and that bad guys don't always wear black.
On this Fourth of July, the release of an epic Western was, at first, worrying, Seeing the trailers for The Lone Ranger, I'll admit that I was skeptical. I expected this to be some eye-rolling, pro-America trash. I'm happy to say I was proven wrong. Gore Verbinski's latest blockbuster displays a critical and nuanced vision of the American West. While there are some offensive ethnic representations, the Native Americans are more than noble savages or murderous braves and the railroad tycoons have more in mind than just Western expansion. At a time of year when we celebrate our great nation, it is good to be reminded that our country was founded by strong men stealing the land and resources of weaker men.
Since the ideologies of The Lone Ranger are so pleasing, it is sad that the movie isn't better. It falls into the all-familiar Hollywood trap of homage overshadowing original narrative. If you are looking for a mosaic of classic Western references, look no further than The Lone Ranger. Verbinski makes nods to a number of Western films. In the beginning of the film, a missionary choir warbles through the hymn "Shall We Gather at the River." Fans of the genre will remember this hymn from nearly every Sam Peckinpah film. On his train ride into Texas, Armee Hammer reads a law book, a familiar image from The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. Hans Zimmer's score takes numerous cues from the films scores of Ennio Morricone. The film feels like a mash-up of the best of the genre and has nothing new to offer.
The narrative is simple, but narrative efficiency is not the name of the game in The Lone Ranger. With a clunky, unfunny frame story and weak character exposition stuffed into the first act, the story takes a long time to get up to speed. It's like some old steam engine trying to chug-chug-chug through a boring story. Thinking back on the film, not much happens. There are some shoot-outs and speeding horses, but these action set pieces are few and far between. They are broken up by what feels like hours of the Lone Ranger and Tonto riding through the desert. They talk. A lot. And it's boring.
When the action does happen, it is mostly exciting. This has always been Verbinski's strong suit. In the original Pirates of the Caribbean, he recaptured the charm of a Douglas Fairbanks or Errol Flynn swashbuckling adventure. While The Lone Ranger never reaches the heights of that film, it has some memorable moments. The two heroes outrun a burning, flipping steam-engine. The Lone Ranger rides his horse, Silver, over buildings and onto the top of a moving train. Bullets whiz and pop off rocks and iron walls. Verbinski shows that he still has a firm grasp on action movie filmmaking.
As in all of Verbinski's films, the production design is the true highlight. Like Ridley Scott, Verbinski jams the frame with costumes, props, and witty details. Verbinski was lucky to have production designer Jess Gonchor on his team. Gonchor is no stranger to the Western. Having applied his talents to No Country for Old Men and True Grit, he was the perfect choice for The Lone Ranger. Every set is filled with visual flourishes and the costumes exhibit more character than the actors. Gonchor's design for a travelling sideshow/brothel is particularly striking. Old painted signs span the main thoroughfare and painted ladies swing from the ceiling. Fire and gaslight give the scene a warm, sepia glow. The whole film is covered in a fine layer of grit and, like the films of Sam Peckinpah; The Lone Ranger is a very tactile film. I could feel the heat on my skin and the sand in my shoes. For all its faults, it is an immersive film.
Verbinski's other strong suit has always been off-beat characters. Johnny Depp's Jack Sparrow is one of the great original film characters of recent years. In The Lone Ranger, Verbinski and Depp have attempted to create another weird and funny sidekick in the figure of Tonto. Depp lends his usual grace and comedic physicality to the role, but Tonto never really gets anywhere as a character. He comes across more as somewhat racist caricature and his constant goofy gestures become annoying. Armee Hammer offers no help. Hammer was decent in The Social Network, but he has failed to impress me since then. His turn as John Reid in The Lone Ranger is flat and laughable. True, he is good looking and his teeth are pearly white. Did they have whitening strips back then? He delivers his lines in an earnest manner and kills every joke before it leaves his lips. He has perhaps the best diction I have ever seen. He bites off every word and he could definitely say "Rubber Baby Buggy Bumpers" ten times fast. You can sure understand everything he has to say, but you don't really want to.
In the end, it's just bloated and boring. It's disappointing because Verbinski's Oscar-winning Rango was a wonderful tribute to the Western as well as an entertaining story. The Lone Ranger could use a sweat suit and trash bags like the wrestlers at my high school used to wear. Maybe it could sweat off some of the excess and find its narrative again. Still, it's nice to know that audiences will maybe be asked to think about their history in a more critical way. Maybe they will pause, sparkler in hand, and consider everyone who has fallen under the march of Western progress. Or, maybe they'll just strap a shiny gun to their hip and walk around Wal-Mart, just like they did in the Old West.
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