Weekend BO....


WEEKEND BOX OFFICE (thanks sergio!)
September 26–28, 2008
Studio Estimates

1) Eagle Eye P/DW $29,200,000

2) Nights in Rodanthe WB $13,570,000

3) Lakeview Terrace SGem $7,000,000 Total: $25,700,000

4) Fireproof Goldwyn $6,514,000

5) Burn After Reading Focus $6,169,000 Total: $45,540,000

6) Igor MGM/W $5,500,000 Total: $14,339,000

7) Righteous Kill Over. $3,803,000 Total: $34,805,000

8) Best Friend's Girl LGF $3,800,000 Total: $14,529,000

9) Miracle at St. Anna BV $3,501,000 (sergio-'even though it's only in less than 1200 theaters compared to 3600 for Eagle Eye and over 160 minutes which means less showings that's not good')

10) Tyler Perry's The Family That Preys LGF $3,160,000 Total; $32,796,000

11) Ghost Town P/DW $2,948,000 Total: $9,239,000

12) The Women PicH $2,653,000 Total: $24,079,000

OK, this has to be one of the most depressing line-ups I've seen in a while. Gonna see Miracle At St. Anna tonight, cause I couldn't face 3 hours in the theatre this weekend. But I did see "Righteous Kill". If anyone needs proof positive that Pacino and DiNiro really and truly don't give a f*ck anymore, look no further than this movie. Hot garbage!

Tho "Nights In Rodanthe" was directed by a Black man (George C. Wolfe) I have zero desire to see it. I would say it's partly the subject matter (I am allergic to chick flicks--severely) and partly because of my memories of Richard Gere when I worked at the studio That Will Henceforth Remain Unnamed (TWHRU). His offices were near mine, and he always walked around with this smug, self-satisfied, "ya know you want me" look on his face. It drove me bananas.

Anyhoo-why are they making former fat kid Shia LeBouf out to be the next action hero? Sorry, I like my leading action star man to be an actual man, not some weak dude with peach fuzz, call me crazy. And what the heck is "Fireproof?"

A Coupla Trailers....

First up, Jamie Foxx's "The Soloist":



Despite Jamie changing it up, and despite Robert Downey Jr (whom I love), I'm cool. Y'all report back.

Here is "Madea Goes To Jail" (sorry Sergio). Make of it what you will:



Despite all that's gone on here in this blog about Tyler Perry, Madea makes me laugh (so sue me!) The films are never, ever as funny as the plays, not even close, in my opinion. Here is a clip of the play "Madea Goes To Jail". Hilarious!

Some Questions...

I saw a bunch of films while I was on my hiatus a couple weeks ago. One of them was "Belly 2" (yikes!). This P.O.S. doesn't warrant a review, but all I want to know are 4 things: 1) how you gonna name something like it was a sequel, when it has absolutely ZERO to do with the first one? 2) who the f*ck keeps putting The Game in movies? Stop it! Right now! 3) isn't Shari Headley like 45? Why was she playing the young ingenue role opposite The Game? Is she still married to Play from Kid 'N Play? (two in one question)


4) what is that mess on The Game's face gonna look like when that fool is 60? Soooo many questions. Sheesh.



Tyler Perry continues his opening at #2 reign. Think he'll ever make it to number 1?


Why do people keep saying SNL's Kristen Wiig is funny? Whatever they're seeing, it is completely and totally missing me. Completely.


Why am I not excited to see "The Secret Life of Bees" despite all the Black power involved? If I get even a whiff of 'The Magical Negro Syndrome" all I hear and see is the white snow and white noise you see and hear when there is no TV reception.


Since I know maybe 2 of you will see it, did you know Jada Pinkett plays a Black lesbian in "The Women"? hmmmm......


Is anybody checking for the Kerry Washington/Samuel Jackson vehicle "Lakeview Terrace"? If any movie is begging to be bought from the blanket of the corner bootleg man it's that one.


Did you know that The Cheadle's "Traitor" was co-written by Steve Martin? Me neither.


On hiatus I also saw a bunch of movies I was on the late train on. When did Jeff Bridges, Gary Oldman, Eric Roberts, and William Hurt (i.e. Ironman, The Hulk, The Dark Knight) turn into such grizzled old men, and had the hot only a few years ago? Thank God Black don't crack, haha!




and oh yeah--madame invisible says start following her blog on blogger!

Disturbing Picture Of The Week...


Need I really say more?

Reader Comments And Emails....

Hey all. Been gone a couple o' days....mama had bidness to attend to :-)

I've gotten some very interesting comments the past couple days...surprise, surprise (not) more than a few involved the great Tyler Perry. Of course Sergio weighed in:

'I have a friend who met Angela Bassett shortly after she made Meet The Browns and told him confidentially that it was the absolute WORSE experience she had ever had in her career. That Perry has no clue what he's doing either in directing or handling actors.

Of course when it came time to promote the film she couldn't say that, but let's face it. She's a 50 year old black actress in Hollywood and it's a struggle just to get a role let alone lead roles. Which is why she's now going to be a regular on the last season of ER (wearing a really bad wig judging from the promo pictures of her on the show). But I have a feeling that other actresses who have been in Perry's movies (Lathan, Woodard, Givens, etc) would all say the same thing about Perry in private too.'

From IW: Dang! And Manchild, who may be the most positive blogger in the Afrosphere, had this to say:

'Ouch!!

I'm hoping and praying that Mr. Tyler Perry will survive his "humble beginnings" as a film director, screenwriter, and producer. It's just a matter of time before he triumphantly delivers the high-quality films people will gladly pay to see.

Despite Mr. Perry's short-comings right now, at least he's involved in the game and doing the best he can to live out his "Big Dream" while he still can.

We all know some creative person who's been shackled and chained by "perfectionism" and the "paralysis of analysis" for years and died with their dreams still in them. Fear and Peer Pressure have persuaded many aspiring writers, actors, and film producers to give up, quit, and abandon their dreams too soon.

Adversity, Setbacks, and Failure will prove to be Tyler Perry's most effective teachers. Time will be his most reliable critic. Been there. Done that.

Manchild'

From IW: Interesting take, and well said. There is hope on the horizon...from reader Awkward Black Girl:

'I have gotten my wish! Tyler Perry is taking a step back to produce OTHER filmmakers and writers. YES JESUS!!!!!


From IW: lol! On another note, from my self-proclaimed lurker "KS" in Kansas-for my Midwest fam, there is an amazing showing of works in Topeka by Separate Cinema from Oct 1-Nov 1.

It is a festival of Black literature adapted to the big screen with the cinema of books by Earnest Gaines, Gordon Parks, Chester Himes, Richard Wright, Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, and a host of others...wish I could be there! For more info on this wonderful fest, entitled "From Micheaux To Morrisson" click HERE.

Films I Love #5: The Aviator's Wife (Eric Rohmer, 1981)


The Aviator's Wife may not be one of Eric Rohmer's most philosophically or thematically deep films, nor is it one of his most frequently cited; it is, nevertheless, one of his most charming films and one of my personal favorites. Its simple story is rigorously divided into structural blocks. François (Philippe Marlaud) and Anne (Marie Rivière) have a troubled relationship, since their schedules rarely intersect — he works all night, she works all day — and because Anne is still getting over her affair with a married pilot, the aviator of the title. Rohmer sets up the drama economically in a handful of early scenes, where François sees Anne with her ex, not realizing that they are only saying goodbye. He confronts her, and the two part on ambiguous terms. Afterwards, as François falls asleep in a café, there is an uncharacteristic iris-in on his face, then seconds later an iris-out as he wakes up again. The unusual device, a silent-era throwback that's rare in modern films and especially notable in comparison to Rohmer's normally unobtrusive cutting, raises the enticing possibility that what follows is simply a fantasy. In any event, the rest of the film, comprising the bulk of its length, is essentially divided into two lengthy dialogues. The first is between François and Lucie (Anne-Laure Meury), a young girl he meets in a park as he's trailing the pilot and his wife, trying to get clues about this man's relationship to Anne. Meury provides a mesmerizing performance, and Rohmer spends seeming eternities in closeup on her expressive face, capturing every nuance of her adorable, charming mannerisms. Her mere presence is sufficient to stop the film in its tracks, to push the ostensible narrative into the background; her effect on the audience mirrors her effect on François, who becomes so engrossed in her that his own troubles and the circumstances in which he ran into her begin to seem remote. Following this interlude, the second long dialogue is a tentative reconciliation between François and Anne at her apartment.

As the images below show, the film's dominant color is green, giving way to deep blues only for the last few nighttime shots. Anne's apartment is imbued with a pale green hue by its floral wallpaper, and the bulk of the film is set either there or in the open air of the park, which provides a leafy backdrop for François and Lucie's rambling, flirtatious conversation. Rohmer, often mistakenly thought of as a filmmaker with a limited visual sense, is actually finely attuned to settings, color, and mise en scène, and he dedicates special care to decorating his characters' living spaces. Anne's apartment is perfectly designed, never cluttered but with just enough detail to suggest the way she has personalized her home: a fishbowl, reproductions of paintings taped to the walls, a vase of yellow flowers breaking up the monotony of green. These personal touches are particularly important in providing telling details about a character who jealously guards her personal space.


Deconstructing Harry


For such an angry, caustic film, Deconstructing Harry is almost shockingly entertaining, turning rage and neurosis into a vaudevillian blend of fantasy and imagination, a series of comic skits that flow into and out of the problems of the "real" world. With this film, Woody Allen confronts head-on the assertions of critics around the time of his 1980 Stardust Memories, which many interpreted as an autobiographical expression of Allen's own antipathy towards his fans and admirers. Although Allen has always maintained that his films are not autobiographical — at least not directly — Deconstructing Harry presents a character who does turn his life into art in this way: Harry Block (Allen), a successful novelist who is continually recycling his own life, and the lives of those close to him, into his books with only the thinnest of disguises laid over the real incidents and people. He is someone who, as he realizes eventually, is more comfortable living in fiction, where he can control and manipulate what happens, than in the chaos and unpredictability of reality. His stories sometimes reflect his psychological state, as in a hilarious short story where an actor (Robin Williams) becomes out of focus with the rest of the world, eventually requiring his wife and kids to wear special glasses in order to see him correctly. More often, though, the stories Harry writes are direct reflections of events in his life, especially his three somewhat tortured marriages and endless affairs — his lovers, wives, and friends show up, in slightly altered form, throughout his novels.

The form of the film incorporates Harry's fictions and Harry's reality on a more or less equal plane, assembling a massive cast to play both the real-life people and their fictional counterparts. The film shifts subtly and seamlessly back and forth between the two states, presenting a collage of incidents that reflect Harry's life both as he sees it and as it really is, often making clear the differences between the two. These differences are sometimes merely comic: an illicit sex scene between Harry stand-in Ken (Richard Benjamin) and Ken's wife's sister Leslie (Julia-Louis Dreyfuss) is played for broad comedy, and runs completely off the rails when Leslie's blind grandmother walks in at the very end, asking them to stop fixing martinis and walk her outside. In other cases, Harry's inventions are revealing, as when his novel turns his ex-wife Joan (Kirstie Alley) into the shrewish Jewish zealot Helen (Demi Moore) by incorporating details from the life of his half-sister (Caroline Aaron), who really did become a devout Jew after marrying an Israeli man. The way Harry takes details from his half-sister's life in order to make his ex-wife less sympathetic indicates his profound discomfort with religion, as does the over-the-top short story where he delves into the "dark secrets" in the past of a stereotypical Jewish father, who it turns out is secretly a murdering, philandering cannibal. The film is a prolonged analysis of Harry, using the material of his stories and his life to engage in psychoanalysis, literary critiques, and multi-layered investigations into what makes him tick.

This process of analysis is complicated, of course, by the addition of Allen himself into the mix. If Harry is a novelist who is more comfortable with his fictional characters than the real people they represent, where does that leave Allen, the man who himself created Harry and everybody else in the film? The film ends with Harry receiving a celebratory dream/fantasy recognition from the assembled throngs of his characters, who gather to applaud him and compliment his work. And though Harry's specific life story and cast of characters don't map particularly well onto Allen's own life, it is nevertheless tempting to see this valedictory finale as Allen's version of Fellini's famous denouement to 8 1/2, a parade of familiar faces from fiction and reality alike. This impression is aided by the revolving door cast, who gather all in one place only for the last scenes. The film brings together familiar Allen players like Julie Kavner, Judy Davis, Mariel Hemingway, and Julia Louis-Dreyfuss, their appearances inevitably recalling earlier Woody films — Hemingway especially, in her minimal role, is an echo back to one of Woody's most iconic moments in Manhattan, and her shrill, angry character here indicates the gulf between the outlooks of the two films. If earlier Allen films were sometimes quietly nostalgic, warm, and funny in their treatment of the central neurotic character played by Woody himself, Deconstructing Harry eliminates this sympathy and warmth. Harry is revealed for what he is, an egotistical jerk with little capacity for connection to those around him, a serial philanderer who rationalizes his inability to be faithful, and who nevertheless expects love and devotion in return. Harry isn't all that different from Manhattan's perpetually immature Isaac Davis, realizing too late that he loves the girl he rejected — Elisabeth Shue's Fay takes the place of Hemingway's Tracy here — but where Isaac was likable and sympathetic despite his failings, Harry is pretty much an asshole.


There's little to like in Harry, and to the extent that it's a self-portrait, it's one in which the brushstrokes are furiously violent, an unflattering image of a whiny, insecure, horny little misanthrope. In a way, Harry is Woody Allen as depicted by his harshest critics over the years. Allen is taking the vitriol of the press, loading it into a gun, and aiming it at his own head. This is especially apparent in the scene where Harvey Stern (Tobey Maguire), a Woody stand-in by way of a Harry stand-in, invites over an Asian prostitute for a night of fun, and she arrives looking like an Eastern femme fatale from an old movie serial, the Dragon Lady come to life in a bright red kimono and dark purple lipstick. It's hard not to interpret this scene as Allen's response to the media frenzy over his relationship with Soon-Yi Previn, a baroque exaggeration of the seediness that Allen's critics saw in his romance with the much younger adopted daughter of his former lover Mia Farrow.

The film reaches its climax with Woody's glorious fantasy of Hell as seen through the eyes of Harry, who takes the opportunity of a story set in the underworld as a perfect chance for some Dantesque settling of grudges with those he hates. The story doesn't quite progress as expected, though, and Harry's self-analysis turns a new corner when he realizes that he no longer wants to condemn his father, who he movingly forgives and frees from Hell — though the old man would rather go to a Chinese restaurant than to Heaven. Harry descends into this vision of Hell, Orpheus-like, in order to rescue his love Fay from the clutches of his friend Larry (Billy Crystal), here reimagined as the Devil himself. Even this aspect of the plotting goes off the rails, though, and Harry must acknowledge that his attempts at controlling life through fiction are doomed to fail. Of course, his response is merely to transform this realization itself into fiction, reigniting the cycle of fantasy and reality that he sought to escape. Allen enters the film obtrusively at this point by literally illustrating Harry's state of mind: as Harry types a sentence about his character's "fragmented" life, the film stutters in a series of jumpcuts, as Woody, Harry, and Harry's character come together in the same cinematic framework.

Today In B'Days.....

Debbie Morgan is 52, looks 32. Completely and totally beautiful in Eve's Bayou. Share your secret, girl!

The Family That Preys (On Your Wallet) Part 2

OK, I saw "The Family That Preys" last night, and while I agree with Miss Snob on some points (review posted yesterday), I am going to take a different, albeit less detailed approach.

Let's pretend that you are an alien from another planet (or another country), and had never heard of Tyler Perry and his movies. You would:

-Wonder why a movie that you think is about an affair has no real mention of said affair until a whole hour into it.

-Be perplexed on how in this day and age, someone can withdraw a substantial amount of cash in a joint (or maybe not joint, it unclear) account without the primary person's permission.

-Be puzzled about how the supposed secondary storyline, while not very interesting, is somehow stronger than the supposed disjointed, wtf first one (I say it is solely based on the performances of the two veterans in the secondary one, Alfre Woodard and Kathy Bates).

-Need an explanation of why Sanaa Lathan stays married to a man, or even got married to a man she so obviously loathes on every level.

-Side-eye the marriage of a zestmaster in an afro wig, pretending to be married and straight, when it is oh so very clear he ain't (not that there's anything wrong with that).

-Marvel at how Taraji P. Henson's eyebrows seem to be two emoting mini-actresses in their own right.


-Not find anything even remotely attractive about Rockmond Dunbar, and wonder why anyone would (OK that was really just Ms. Invisible, but someone has to be thinking that too!)

-Just say OK, what was that? at the climax, when a man leaves someone he'd been with for four years and had a child with like it was a one night stand, with no explanation.

-Have no inkling still of who Tyler Perry is, and why he keeps making the same movie over and over (so someone told you), but you do know that Sanaa Lathan, Taraji P. Henson, and Robin Givens had the fiercest hair on film record, and wonder where you can buy that amazing flatiron.

That is all.

All in all, I never get worked up about the works of Tyler Perry, but just have a kinda watchful resignation to it. His movies never really do anything for me, but I know they do for others, and I'm OK with that. I also would never, ever pay to see one, and am very glad I didn't have to with this one.

I would compare this movie to a situation when you are really, really hungry, and there is no place familiar to eat, so you pull your car over and give one place a try. The meal is bland and pretty ordinary, but you aren't hungry anymore for the moment, and you can at least say you tried a new place, tho you won't be back. You walk out the door and promptly and completely forget about it, and get hungry two hours later.

Yeah, it's like that.



btw, what happened to jennifer hudson being in this movie like everyone was talking about a few months back?

The Family That Preys (On Your Wallet)

There is a blog that is always on my radar called "The Black Snob". Miss Snob writes in a way that I wish I had time to do. Unfortunately I don't; I barely even have time to read her thought provoking and involved posts. Here is her detailed review of "The Family That Preys" via Sergio (who I'm sure printed this review on flyers and handed to everyone in the Chicago metropolitan area). Veeerrrry interesting:

I Saw A Tyler Perry Film And Didn't Walk Out In The First 15 Minutes....But Not Because I Didn't Want To

The Snob went to see Tyler Perry's "The Family That Preys," for free, as a guest of a friend. She went with an open mind and that mind was so dulled that it couldn't cut through Perry's horrid dialog, shoddy stagecraft and hysterical directing.

I didn't have high hopes, but I didn't expect what I got.

When I read how others saw this film I wonder if they were grading on a curve. Or maybe his previous films were so poorly executed that by comparison this one was brilliant. But I do know this:

I've watched a lot of black films, many which barely passed as "entertainment." They were what they were, imperfect comedy vessels produced by hacks, but hacks who understood film, if only on a hackery level.

Perry is not good enough to be called a hack.

Compared the producers and directors of such high black cinema as "Juwanna Man," "Two Can Play This Game," "Waiting to Exhale" and both "Barbershop" films, Perry doesn't even come close. To say he is a hack would be to assume that he understood the most basic, crudest elements of filmmaking on a budget.

And from what I saw Saturday morning, this man does not.

Words cannot describe how much I didn't like "The Family That Preys." (Although this review comes close.) The corny, hackneyed mish mash of "Days of Our Lives" and "Soul Food" for a plot could be forgiven. The sickly sweet use of the Lee Ann Womack's relatively recent country classic "I Hope You Dance" could be forgiven. Forcing poor Alfre Woodard and Kathy Bates to go through lines as subtle as a hand grenade. I can even forgive making Rockmond Dunbar's character the dumbest cuckolded man in the history of cuckolds. But I cannot forgive the fact that Perry either does not or refuses to learn the basic elements of filmmaking.

[SPOILER ALERT! If you actually want to be "surprised" by Perry's been-there-done-that plot, please stop reading. But if you watch this film and can't see what's going to happen from a mile out, you obviously don't consume much fiction, whether as a book, TV show, film, music or long form poem.]


Show, don't tell: This was the greatest sin of the whole movie. There's a wedding at the beginning that you never see take place. There is an affair that you never learn any of the "good" parts of -- like the seduction, the courtship, the illicit meetings, any allusions of sex or intimacy between those two characters, allusions of any love or lust between the two. All parts of the affair are learned through a list of talking points uttered by various characters throughout the film.

There's two "children," one per each cheater. One child you only see via the back of his head and the other is invisible, despite both being mentioned. The history of the friendship between Woodard and Bates' characters is verbally mentioned, but not shown. Potential for the examination of class/race issues are offered up but never probed. Woodard takes Bates to an impromptu Baptism when there was no lead-up explaining why Bates would want to be Baptized. There are no conversations between the two about life and death, the existence of God or who Jesus Christ is. Just a Baptism out of nothingness, never touched upon, referenced or explained ever again.

And rather than show through better filmmaking why Sanaa Lathan's character is such a gigantic bitch or why she is obsessed with money, there are jibs and jabs from her sister (who comes off almost equally as bitchy), regular references to luxury items and finally, a blurted out half-assed excuse/motivation for Lathan's nuttiness when she barks at her mother for driving their father away who apparently abandoned them. This is the first and only reference to the man and how his actions affected their family.

Attack of the two dimensional character: There were only two types of characters in this movie -- the good, salt of the earth, working class-to-poor people and the evil, college educated, stuck up rich people.

Does Cole Hauser's William Cartwright have any motivation to cheat on his wife that we know of? No. Do we find out the nature of his marriage? No. Do we learn why he and his mother have such a frigid relationship? No. Do we find out why he loves or does not love his wife or Lathan's character? No. Do we find out why he chose to carry on a years long affair with Lathan's character? No. Do we find out if he had a relationship with Lathan's character's "son" (who Perry -- shock, shock -- outs as Cartwright's son? No. He's just evil.

The same goes for Lathan who is a cold, calculating and cackling witch with no explanation. She also turns into an immature, nonsensical woman who doesn't act anything like a tough, hardworking woman who managed to pull herself up out of poverty and earn an Ivy League education. We don't learn that she had any love for Cartwright until shortly after the film's climax. I'd assumed she was playing him for the money given how "evil" she was, but she tearfully blurts out the most trite and cliched, "He loves me. He's going to leave his wife and marry meeeeee!" bullshit that is even below "The Young and The Restless" standards.

The "good" characters are just as awful. Dunbar's "Mr. Cuckold" is the stupidest wronged spouse in the history of wronged spouses. He is written as so weak and so witless he defies belief. When he learns his wife has a separate account with more than $280,000 in it and asks her about it, she castrates him telling him he has no business looking at her money and that she gets the cash from "bonuses."

She also has a "bonus" car given to her by the company and a "bonus" house, also from the company.

Yet, Dunbar's character doesn't figure it all out until the very end where he uncharacteristically slaps Lathan so hard that she flies over a diner counter top. While this got a lot of laughs from the audience, no doubt under the guise of "she had it coming," I was still disturbed as it wasn't necessary and gives the impression that there is a justification to physically assault another person, especially a woman, if she had it coming.

Wildly gesticulating caricatures: Perry does not understand how you can't direct actors for film the same way you'd direct actors for stage. Too often he has instructed his talented actors to "overact," as you would do for a stage play. On the stage you have to make wider gestures to fill the open theater void. Film is an intimate medium. Actors have to dial back so the dialog and interactions seem real. But the actors weren't dialed back, so they all sounded like cartoons, especially with such unimaginative dialog.

Repetitiveness: Apparently Perry was worried I wouldn't get a few points, so he had his characters repeat them over and over. For Lathan, "I get bonuses!" From every character to Dunbar about his dream of his own construction company some variation of," You need to get your head out of the clouds and be thankful for what you have!" Everyone except Woodard's character, "I need a drink." Having a fresh from work (and two fresh from cheating) threesome return home needing a shower almost immediately. Largely because Lathan and Hauser's characters, hint, hint, wink, wink, did the nasty that day. Perry's character just needed a shower because he was funky from work.

Perry is a lazy screenwriter: I could go all day naming plot devices that did not work or make sense, but if I had to pick one, the most maddening would be how Dunbar's character finds out about the secret account flushed with cash. He learns of it from a bank teller while trying to make a withdrawal. By this point, he and Lathan have been married for four years. The teller asks him which account and he is confused, asking the teller where the extra account came from and what is in it.

How dumb is Lathan's character if she didn't have the presence of mind to open her "secret" account at a different bank? Or if she had to have it at that bank, why would she have her husband's name listed on it? Because that's the only way the teller would say "which account." Because he gave his name only accounts with his name should have come up. Plus, this undercuts the fact that they've already been married for four years and we are to assume that he has never gone into the bank to make a transaction not once when his name is on his wife's secret account.

What the hell, people: Out of all these things I've mentioned, I guess my biggest disappointment was with the audience.

I don't have a problem in people liking and enjoying Perry's stage plays and films, but let's not fool ourselves. This is some piss poor film-making and everyone in that audience should have known it. THESE are the same people who saw "Dreamgirls," who watch "CSI: Miami," who read "Waiting to Exhale" and whose favorite films are "The Color Purple," "The Best Man" and "Bad Boys II." These are people who have seen both excellent cinema and some of Hollywood's finest hackery, yet they applaud something they have to know is a vastly inferior product when compared to "CB4," "Hitch" or "New Jack City."

I can understand why someone would love "Beauty Shop," the boring sequel to the "Barbershop" films, or "Glitter," that "A Star Is Born While a DJ Saved My Life" nightmare by Mariah Carey because as bad as those movies were the people making them understood the basic elements of filmmaking. That way, you could focus on the REAL problems of the film. Not get stuck on elementals you should have learned in either film school or via virtual film school -- a la Quintin Tarantino, a cinephile who consumed mass amounts of movies as he taught himself the craft.

I mourn what could have been -- a watchable melodrama on the subjects of marriage and infidelity featuring black performers.

Seeing actors I like (Rockmond Dunbar, Alfre Woodard, Kathy Bates) and love (Sanaa Lathan, Cole Hauser) wasted in a work undeserving of their talent drove me mad. To have an affair movie with no dramatization of the affair was ridiculous. I wasn't expecting a dry humping sex scene, but would it have killed him to shoot some passionate kissing, a fall on a bed and a fade to black? Give me the seduction. Give me the thickness of the drama. I want to understand what makes a marriage breakdown. By the end of the film, I learned nothing about commitment, family, love or loss that I couldn't find in a fortune cookie.

I realize this film was supposed to be some sort of departure for Perry, going with a biracial cast of characters with a grab for serious drama. But he really demonstrated his limitations as a director and it's hard to "cross-over" when you know that you can't screen your films for critics. And this is likely because Lion's Gate, which put out this film, knows it wouldn't even fly as a film student's freshman experiment. They know Perry can't direct and don't care, because they know black people who know his films are overacted with lots of shortcomings, love Perry anyway and focus on the good more so than the crappy.

So I applaud Perry for his ability to sell his vaudeville to a black movie-watching public who is willing to forgive his egregious sins of cinema because they are so starved of visions of us on screen. So starved that they are willing to pretend like "The Family That Preys" is "Unfaithful" meets "In Living Single" when it's really neither.

It seems I am too big of a snob for Tyler Perry films. My desire for the film fundamentals of A + B = Basic Filmmaking to be met are so strong that not even the power of blackness can override it.

Try harder.


From IW: Wow!

Really, Jennifer?

You probably already know this, but Jennifer Hudson got engaged to be married to Punk from "I Love New York 2" over the weekend.


pic from bossip

Rebecca


The title character in Alfred Hitchcock's Rebecca, his American debut after a string of British thrillers, is a woman who is never seen onscreen, not even in a photo. She died before the story even opens, and yet her presence infuses every frame of the film. This invisible ghost hovers over the seemingly doomed love of a naïve young woman (Joan Fontaine) who, in contrast to the title character, is seen but never named. This woman, so unprepossessing that she barely has an identity, is quiet, unworldly, slightly clumsy, and painfully, awkwardly shy. She serves as a "paid companion" to an oafish and demanding society matron (Florence Bates) who fancies herself a sophisticate and loves ordering her young charge around. Despite her shrinking nature, this girl falls in love with the handsome, debonair, but deeply troubled widower Maxim de Winter (Laurence Olivier), whose wife Rebecca died in a boating accident not so long ago. The couple soon get married and de Winter takes his young bride back to his palatial home by the sea, where the spirit of the departed Rebecca still hangs over everything, smothering the second Mrs. de Winter (the only name she is ever called) with the impossible task of filling the shoes of this glamorous, beautiful, universally popular society lady.

Names are incredibly important in this film, and the script goes to great lengths to avoid giving the heroine herself a name — and also to point out her lack of a name and, consequently, lack of a clearly defined identity. In some scenes, she seems to be barely there, not introduced, not speaking, as invisible as Rebecca. When she first meets her future husband, he's introduced to her, but if he ever learns her name, Hitchcock is careful not to show that scene. Instead, he refers to her only as "my darling" and other pet names, and after their marriage, she's introduced to anyone else only as Mrs. de Winter, a name she shares, not incidentally, with the deceased Rebecca. She has no name of her own, only a name she's inherited from another woman, and she has no identity separate from her husband. When given the opportunity to introduce herself instead of being introduced, she says only that she is "Maxim's wife," self-identifying with a possessive noun that refers back to her husband rather than directly to herself. Maxim himself has an abundance of names — his full moniker is the ostentatious George Fortescue Maximilian de Winter — and Rebecca's ubiquitous name appears as frequently as though she were still alive. Her initials are still on bedsheets, handkerchiefs, note paper, address books, and all manner of other decorations around the house, and the new Mrs. de Winter continually finds herself inheriting these leftovers emblazoned with that bold, stylized "R."

Only the heroine is lacking in names, a fact that resonates on multiple levels: it intensifies her fear that she is stepping in for another woman who Maxim is obviously still preoccupied with; it betrays her lower-class insecurity about inhabiting the role of a society hostess surrounded by servants in this spacious home; and subtextually, it indicates a proto-feminist concern for the loss of female identity attendant to marriage as a general institution. Here, the loss of individual autonomy that often accompanies marriage — especially for the woman who sacrifices her name to take on her husband's instead — is exaggerated by the suspicion that this woman barely possessed her own identity to begin with. Fontaine plays her with a shrinking, hunched quality, always nervous, seemingly never sure quite how she should hold her arms, and in moments of especially great fear practically contorting herself into a pretzel. She looks as though, if she could implode into herself on the spot, she would. Hitch apparently helped wrest this performance from his star by encouraging the off-camera perception that everyone on the set hated her, and the result is a completely unglamorous star turn, shorn of the usual actorly confidence. The effect is heightened by the contrast with Olivier, as grand and stately as ever, towering over his new wife in stature and in self-assurance alike. She is so insecure that she seems to be looking for someone to think and act for her, which is why she puts up with her domineering boss, why she throws herself at a man who mostly seems distant and disinterested, and why when she becomes his wife she allows his servants to manipulate and control her.


This is especially true of the household's chief servant, Mrs. Danvers (Judith Anderson), who was fiercely devoted to the first Mrs. de Winter and resents the intrusion of a second. Anderson gives a wonderfully fiendish performance as the gaunt, sinister housekeeper, always lurking around and padding quietly through the mansion to surprise the lady of the house at inopportune moments. In one of the film's eeriest sequences, Danvers shows the new bride around her predecessor's huge, airy room, which has been sealed off ever since Rebecca's death and maintained in exactly the same condition as the former Mrs. de Winter liked it. The room is beautiful, and Hitchcock films it with light streaming through the tall, overpowering windows, capturing its austere beauty: it looks like a mausoleum, and Danvers' guided tour is like rifling through the bones of the dead. She leads the heroine through Rebecca's nightly routine, describing how she would undress herself while telling stories of glamorous parties, then take a bath, sit by the dressing table to comb her hair, and go to bed. She opens Rebecca's closets full of expensive clothes, inviting the younger girl to feel the plushness of a fur coat, and she even displays the dead woman's underwear, recalling, in a moment of deadpan humor, how it was specially made for her by nuns. The whole scene has a creepy necrophiliac undertone, like digging through a crypt: an intimate, personal violation. The room stands in for Rebecca herself, and Danvers' tour is a way of being with her beloved employer, touching and fondling Rebecca's possessions as though they were an extension of her departed flesh. The unsettling sexuality of it all comes to the fore when Danvers picks up Rebecca's lacy negligee, holding it out and admiring its delicacy and transparency. She places her hand inside it and says with lusty joy, "Look, you can see my hand through it." It's an obvious invitation to imagine Rebecca wearing the gown, to imagine a woman who displays her body so sensuously with such a flimsy barrier simultaneously covering and revealing her nakedness; the hand pressing against the inside of the negligee stands in for Rebecca's naked body.

This perverse but subtly masked sexuality is, of course, a perfect topic for Hitchcock, whose thrillers so often trafficked in dense psycho-sexual layering. The plot of the film is, in many ways, pure melodrama, and could've easily lent itself to overcooked hysterics in other hands, but Hitch truly makes the material his own. This is true not only of the second half, in which the plot unexpectedly morphs into a kind of typical Hitchcockian "wrong man" thriller — and not an especially interesting one either — but even more so of the sedate, subtle first half, in which the dread and suffocation of the heroine steadily increase. Here, Hitch's characteristic suspense is diffuse, building atmosphere not through any particular events but through a generalized aura of fear surrounding the characters. The film evokes the overbearing presence of Rebecca primarily with sheer technical skill: especially by photographing the unnamed new wife in spacious deep-focus compositions that isolate her within the house, which seems to stretch off into the distance for miles. The surroundings loom over the excessively modest new Mrs. de Winter, who is small and insignificant in her new home, her stooped posture and shy manner contributing to her diminishment. Even inanimate objects have more personality than her, as Rebecca's leftover clothes and decorations are given a totemic power that dwarfs the woman who now possesses them. The film itself, though, is as potent and haunting as its ghostly title character.

Films I Love #4: Ménilmontant (Dimitri Kirsanoff, 1926)


Dimitri Kirsanoff's Ménilmontant is a masterpiece of silent cinema, taking a simple melodramatic plot and transforming it into a deeply affecting work of art with the sheer force of the poetic, intense visuals that Kirsanoff uses to tell his story. The film follows a pair of sisters who leave the country for the city after their parents are slaughtered in a mysterious axe murder. Unusually for the time, there are no intertitles, so the plot is communicated entirely with imagery. This economical storytelling gives the film a lean, stripped-down aesthetic that makes it seem eminently modern. All the unnecessary exposition is trimmed away, and the opening axe murder is boldly stylized and brutally effective, even as its exact details remain unclear. Kirsanoff's dense, rapid-fire montage is perfectly suited to capturing the insane violence that orphans the two girls. Later, as the film traces the disintegration of the sisters' relationship after a man comes between them, Kirsanoff employs a wide variety of aesthetic tools, from superimposition to expressive closeups to poetic non-narrative shots of the urban surroundings. One of the most striking sequences occurs as the girls mourn their parents, and Kirsanoff quickly fades back and forth between the two sisters, who are facing in different directions. As the two faces are superimposed, they form a Janus-headed image of grief, joined into one image and one person through Kirsanoff's sleight of hand. The film also ventures into near-abstract montage at times, as when a frantic burst of layered imagery suggests the frazzled mental state of one girl as she worries about her missing sister. This is a dazzling masterpiece that is as overwhelming and powerful today as the day it was made, its impact completely undulled by the passage of many decades.