Don't Vamp Out on Me, Bro

Dear regular readers (all five of you), who have probably noticed the dust collecting on the Panned Review over the last month-and-a-half,

I am sorry it's been so long. I feel as though I have abandoned you to the Pete Hammonds and the A.O. Scotts of the world, with their exuberant love of everything and their excessive use of adjectives, respectively. And now I'm back and you will probably see this sudden new post--leading with a review of a 27-year-old movie which I've already written about--as a cop-out. I haven't been to the movies since APRIL. Except for Mother's Day, when I took my mom and grandmother and my great aunt to see The Sound of Music at good old Sunray Cinema. But other than that, no movies. Not that I don't want to see Neighbors, or A Million Ways to Die in the West, or The Fault in Our Stars, or Chef. I'm going to do my best to get back in the saddle soon. Unfortunately, work became insane in May. And now here I am, a bumming-it temporarily out-of-work teacher sitting back for summer vacation thinking, "Didn't I used to write movie reviews for fun?"

Why would I bother to re-review a movie? Well, first, because I didn't remember that I had written a review of it already until I was finished with this one. And second because, it afforded me the opportunity to write oh-so-briefly about cinematic experience as memoir, which is something I find very interesting.

Last night I watched The Lost Boys (1987) for probably the 50th time. I don't normally enjoy watching movies I love and have seen multiple times with other people. It's as if I've invited an acquaintance over for coffee when it was just going to be me and my best friend. Suddenly, I'll start seeing all the flaws in my best friend as I examine him through my acquaintance's eyes. I end up not enjoying the movie or the company, and then I start questioning: Am I really as film fanatical as I think I am? Can I trust ANY of my old opinions about movies? Will re-watching them as an adult--with other people--ruin ALL of my old memories?

But this time was different, probably because one of my friends was a devoted Lost Boys fan herself, having gone to see it in theaters when she was a kid. Is there anything better than seeing an R-rated movie when you're too young? Admittedly, on the subject of the film's MPAA rating, we were all scratching our heads. The Lost Boys has no nudity, only one very brief scene of heavy kissing (but all the actual sex is just implied), mild profanity but nothing too excessive, and even the gore is exhibited in fleeting shots. The camera cuts away as quickly as possible, always before you see more than a second's worth of blood and gore oozing out of the vampire victims' necks. Granted, the finale--which features multiple vampire death scenes--is full of typically gratuitous 80s horror movie footage: corporeal explosion and implosion scenes designed to gross out even the most decorated horror veteran. But really, it just made me laugh and think, "Oh how I love the 80s. So over-the-top. So excessive. So what it is."

Movies today aren't what they are. They're too self-aware, too hip and ironic to be fun. The Lost Boys is a slick piece of Hollywood product, to be sure, featuring some of the hottest young stars of the time--Jason Patric (making his film debut), Corey Haim (rest in peace), Corey Feldman, Kiefer Sutherland, and Jamie Gertz. It's set in the fictitious town of Santa Carla, California (it was filmed in Santa Cruz), which the director (Joel Schumacher) and the writers (Jeffrey Boam, Janice Fischer, and James Jeremias) paint as a kind of refuge for rejects: it's right on the Pacific and its main attraction is a Strangers on a Train-esque fairground, which is one of the primary hangouts for the band of bloodsuckers, a quartet of punk-rock, ACDC-looking teenagers headed by the dynamic Kiefer Sutherland, who's quite believable as their self-appointed cult leader.

The vampires live in a cave right on the edge of the ocean, the site of a hotel that collapsed during the great quake of 1906 because it was built right on the faultline. This subterranean inverted resort is quite a showpiece for the production designer, Bo Welch. We see a chandelier resting snugly on the ground where it fell, and the rock walls are decorated with carpets and lights and the the broken knick knacks of the hotel, all of it forming a vague, shapeless style: colorful, glittering, excessive, monstrous. It's as though the original hotel had been decorated by gypsies right before it collapsed into itself. Right at the center of the main room of the cave is a huge poster of Jim Morrison, whom it's hinted at represents a kind of cult figure for the vampires. Unfortunately, the film never does anything with this idea. That's one of the primary flaws of The Lost Boys. It's brimming with ideas that are never shaped into anything.

But it's still one hell of a fun movie. And the film makes fairly clever use of all the tropes of the genre, sometimes conveniently breaking them in order to salvage a semblance of credibility. One of my friends was criticizing the movie's special effects which are, of course, now dated. I'd like to remind everyone--as I reminded him--not to feel too superior to old movies. To blame them for not being as technologically advanced as a movie from 2014 is anachronistic criticism and therefore invalid. Besides, I don't give a shit if the movie has a few dated effects. It's still pretty impressive. The filmmakers of The Lost Boys were able to do a lot with what they had, and the movie holds up quite nicely. More importantly, this movie has attitude and spunk and heart, and the actors are such fun to watch. Corey Haim has most of the best lines (like threatening to tell his mom that his older brother is a vampire, such a flacid piece of leverage in light of the circumstances). Although Barnard Hughes--as the drunk, quippy grandpa who's not used nearly enough in the film--gets a fantastic line at the very end of the movie, securing this film's status as one of the great 80s horror classics: "One thing I never could stomach about living in Santa Carla: All the damn vampires."

--

The Sound of Music (1965) is another movie I've watched like 50 times. It had been probably a decade since my last viewing, and I was a little bit apprehensive going into the theater. For one thing, one of my film critic idols (Pauline Kael) was allegedly fired from McCall's magazine for panning the movie back in 1965. (She re-titled it "The Sound of Money.") This was mostly legend. She was fired because she had been panning everything that was popular, and the people at McCall's were a little too mainstream for Kael's taste. Would Pauline come back from the grave and haunt me if I liked The Sound of Music? Would my new faux-hip self be too cool to enjoy the movie, or even worse, be unable even to secretly admit that I still liked it? After all, as a child I would watch it and sing along with the music, knowing every line from memory. I once drove one of my childhood friend's family crazy by singing the entire soundtrack during a very long drive to Washington D.C. (It's their own damn fault: I didn't force them to put the tape in.)

Despite laughing at a few moments (when the kids sing "So Long, Farewell" and the entire party waves back at them, singing, "Goodbye," I nearly lost it), I did enjoy The Sound of Music. It brought back some nostalgic feelings and made me want to visit Austria and learn more about World War II. Also, when the Von Trapps are hiding in the Abbey and the youngest Von Trapp imp asks Maria, "would this be a good time to sing about our favorite things?" I desperately wanted Julie Andrews to say, "Why the hell not?", break into song, and get them all arrested by the Nazis.

Also, I never realized as a child how sexy Eleanor Parker and Christopher Plummer were. They belonged in a different movie almost. And it's hard to understand why the Captain was attracted to Julie Andrews except as a potential mom for his kids. She's extremely feminine and good, but somehow sexless.

--

Finally, a plug for HBO's hilarious comedy Veep, starring the wonderful Julia Louis Dreyfus. If you're like me and don't have HBO, you'll have to wait until it comes out on DVD. Luckily for you, the first two seasons ARE out. So you're actually NOT like me because you can go get them right now. If you don't mind excessive profanity and lots of pretty vulgar insults, you'll enjoy the sharpness of this frighteningly real show. It's as if someone has captured the day-to-day inner-workings of DC through hidden video. When you see how much of what they do is image control, it will make you giggle, and then probably feel real disgust that our leaders in Washington do very little of substance. It's all spin all the time. But the cast of Veep, which also includes Anna Chlumsky, Tony Hale (Buster from Arrested Development), Matt Walsh, Reid Scott, Timothy Simons, Sufe Bradshaw, and Kevin Dunn, makes this show crackle. The show is somehow completely un-redeemable and completely lovable at the same time. 

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo

Stieg Larsson's posthumously popular novel brought to the screen by writer Steven Zaillian and director David Fincher. I haven't read the book or its sequels, nor have I seen the 2009 Swedish filmization of the novel. But this American version of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo was sheer exuberance. Fincher seems to be getting better and better. His 2007 Zodiac is just about the best film of that decade, and he seems to have found a way to further explore the themes of obsession, murder, and the inevitability of the past, with his latest movie.

Daniel Craig plays a reporter in Stockholm who's being sued for malice by a sleazy businessman. He's left broke and discredited as a journalist, so he accepts an unexpected job offer from an ailing Swedish tycoon (Christopher Plummer): to uncover the mystery of his niece Harriet's disappearance in 1966. He enlists the help of a resourceful girl named Lisbeth (Rooney Mara) who's obtained a surprising level of street-smartness at 23. She knows how to carry herself, but not before being mistreated by many, including the pervy social worker who doles out her allowance at the expense of her dignity more than once.

The movie is absolutely smashing entertainment, delivered with such panache and skill that you hardly notice its near three-hour running time, except for at the end a bit. The setting is perfect material for a tingling mystery. Indeed, the makers of this (and of course we must also credit the late author, Larsson) know what ingredients to put into a movie to make it exciting and suspenseful, and yet nothing seems carelessly inserted. Everything is well layered. You soon realize that what you're getting with this movie is good old-fashioned thrills merged with modern sensibilities.

It engages with the technological innovations that have so reshaped our world in the last fifteen years, without seeming too clumsy about it. On the other hand, the product placement is like a minefield. Apple products and Google searches pop up around every corner. (How do you get around Google and Macbooks these days without seeming like commercializing your entertainment?) I can give the movie a pass for that because it was so damn good.

Daniel Craig, who may also be our best Bond yet, carries the movie successfully: he's the kind of actor you're willing to believe because he's in good shape. He cares about himself and so you care about him. Mara, who had a bit part in Fincher's The Social Network, gets her turn at the wheel here, and she doesn't disappoint. She has enough brass to topple a Swedish magnate.

This movie doesn't hold back. It's refreshing to see something really vital and unbridled for a change, but it would be foolish to bring younger viewers to this, considering some of the content. (Lisbeth is raped by her disgusting case worker. He gets his in a scene that's a sort of revenge fantasy that feels morally justified but equally disturbing.)

With Robin Wright, Stellan Skarsgard, Steven Berkoff, Joely Richardson, and Embeth Davidtz. ★★★½

Beginners

Too pretentious to be interesting. Beginners feels like a movie that's supposed to be good for you: it's full of realism, a somber dose of the tragedies of life and the breakdowns in human relationships that stay broken and unmanaged for years, often going to the grave that way, in a state of arrested development, shell-shocked critical condition. In that sense, Beginners has no actual feeling at all. We begin to acquire a sense of having been sedated as we watch real life unfold and wonder when the movie is going to start.

The story, which meanders with little actual purpose, can be summed up in about the sappiest, most harebrained fashion imaginable: it's about lost chances and new beginnings: 38-year-old Oliver can't seem to make a relationship last, so he's full of doubts when he falls for a French actress (Melanie Laurent). He's also trying to make sense of the loss of his parents within a relatively short span of four years (not to mention their cold and loveless relationship for 44 years, which he learns stemmed from his father's latent homosexuality). Bereft of his wife, the father (Christopher Plummer) comes out of the closet and embraces his inner Gay.

The movie reaches for something powerful and moving but stops short deliberately to avoid being pegged as sentimental or sappy. It wanders in search of the movie it refuses to become. We keep being confronted with these kinds of movies: they're largely independent, and they're largely marketed as some kind of realistic alternative to the high drama we saw in those glossy 1950's soapers, like All This and Heaven Too and Suddenly, Last Summer. Those movies hovered precariously into the atmosphere of camp, whereas movies like Beginners go the opposite way, reaching, rather limply, toward indifference. Maybe that's why Todd Haynes's Far From Heaven (2002) made such a strong impression on me. It was throwback to those 1950s movies where the emotions ran the gamut. If nothing else we could laugh at them. In Beginners it hardly seems appropriate. Like giggling at a funeral.

Anything, even camp, would be a refreshing change from Beginners, which stays comfortably at room temperature. The emotions are there, but they're stifled. We feel for the characters anyway, because director Mike Mills is adept at organizing the right images together (and he has a solid cast to work with). How could you not feel pity for a giddy, grandfatherly type--Captain Von Trapp, nonetheless--who's dying of cancer? There's a scene where he finds out it's too late to continue with treatment, and he has a painful, wrenching expression on his face: life has played a cruel joke on him, and we see the wretched irony in his expressions.

Seeing Beginners is neither cathartic nor entertaining, it's just a bummer. Especially if you were looking forward to your Friday night.

Side notes: the relationship between Oliver and his late father's Jack Russell terrier is the closest this film comes to being endearing. It's genuinely touching. Also, Mary Page Keller plays Oliver's mother in flashback, and her scenes are among the film's brightest spots. She's so jaded by the squeaky clean banality of domesticity--and the grim realities of a loveless marriage--that she likes breaking little social conventions just for the hell of it. Her son carries that tradition into his adult life, but somehow those scenes don't register as well, and the movie doesn't do enough of that--doesn't appropriate enough of that droll humor--to really get anywhere with it.