The Avengers (d. Joss Whedon, 2012, USA) B+
Some mind-numbingly long (and not terribly impressive) action scenes are inevitably part of The Avengers' lifeblood, but this is about as good as overproduced Hollywood blockbusters come. Essentially, the task handed to director/writer Whedon (and scenarist Zak Penn) was to get a motley crew of superheroes together as quickly as possible so they can wage bombastic, eerily 9/11-reminiscent war against a squadron of alien invaders. The CGI special effects are fine but not particularly distinguished (what sleek mainstream movie doesn't have pristine graphics?); the warfare itself is exciting but once again proves the disconcerting fact that American audiences love to see our cherished metropolises demolished onscreen. (The desert of the real wasn't real enough for us, apparently.) The movie is really enlivened by Whedon's reliably witty dialogue, the actors' convivial interplay, and the emotional import supplied by Mark Ruffalo as the third cinematic Bruce Banner in recent memory. (He's the only semblance of emotional depth, but still.) What's more, the movie's ideas about how humanity craves subjugation (even at the hands of supposed heroes) are, while not original or especially deep, at least sporadically thought-provoking.
Hail the Conquering Hero (d. Preston Sturges, 1944, USA) B
One of the alternate titles conceived for this film was Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition, which suggests the outrageous subversive tone the final product could have had. It's true that even a mediocre Preston Sturges movie stands head-and-shoulders above a lot of lesser directors' works, but even so, Hail the Conquering Hero doesn't quite satisfy. It can't compare to the crackling satire and dizzying pace of The Miracle of Morgan's Creek or The Palm Beach Story, not to mention the unparalleled elegance and wit of The Lady Eve. A genial satire of wartime hero-worship and hollow patriotism, Hail the Conquering Hero speeds ahead so cavalierly through its cynicism that it somehow convinces you it's still a flag-waving portrayal of quaint, small-town Americana. (Surely this is why the Production Code censors, normally so stringent during the war years, let Sturges' portrayal of political corruption and social gullibility pass.) Eddie Bracken, as the hay fever-afflicted schlemiel barred from military service who's passed off as a wartime hero by a group of Marines for his homecoming, is too dour and agitated to make his character's plight either relatable or subversive; the strangely plucky group of soldiers who surround him are, in fact, more likeable characters. But of course the movie has its charms (its effortless portrayal of the ensemble of townspeople, subtle wit not only in the dialogue but in small visual symbols spread throughout the frame), and a great running gag involving a number of overeager marching bands who repeatedly start playing their patriotic fanfare prematurely.
Red Desert (d. Michelangelo Antonioni, 1964, Italy/France) A-
Antonioni's follow-up to his loose trilogy of La Notte, L'Avventura, and L'Eclisse (and his first color film) is a bleak but fascinating depiction of a depleted dystopia rampant with loneliness, ennui, desperation, and a deadening cycle of production and consumption. The plot (having to do with the wife of a factory manager, slowly driven mad by the harsh environment, who succumbs to a desperate affair with a visiting businessman) is only occasionally engrossing, but Antonioni movies shouldn't really be watched for their stories. More compelling is Monica Vitti's characteristically chilly performance, a wonder of slow deterioration that manages to be thrilling despite its iciness; and most of all the austere color cinematography, surveying the hellish landscape with both a haunting hopelessness and an adoration of its stark beauty. If we can associate Antonioni with any one dominant theme, maybe it's the breakdown of people's identities when faced with a capitalistic society that devalues humanity and togetherness – not at all a hopeful theme, but one that's undeniably complex and unsettling. You could stop the movie at any frame and likely have a masterpiece of cinematic composition (though in that case you'd miss out on the meticulous and foreboding soundtrack).
Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! (d. Pedro Almodóvar, 1990, Spain) B-
As immersed in sex and cinema as we'd expect from an Almodóvar film, Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! is undeniably sexy and tantalizingly kinky, but its emotional resonance lags a bit behind its perversions. Ricky (Antonio Banderas), just released from a mental hospital, kidnaps a burgeoning movie star (who's also an ex-porn actress and former heroin junkie), convinced that she'll grow to love him over time. Which she does, suggesting a dark-toned, twisted examination of attraction, attachment, obsession, sadomasochism, and the possibility of "controlling" other people (and being controlled). Unfortunately the movie doesn't really capitalize on this potential, preferring instead to concoct a vibrant, propulsive smorgasbord of color and movement that's visually arresting but conceptually hollow. At least this allows the film to escape charges of misogyny or gratuitous shock value (despite a sweat-soaked sex scene, it's surprisingly timid), but it also doesn't make it especially memorable. As Marina, the former junkie-turned-starlet, Victoria Abril is only allowed to show range or dynamism in the last ten minutes or so, which at least provides Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! with a solid closing shot. But at least there is another image now imprinted permanently on my memory: a scene from Marina's film-within-the-film in which she swings, pendulum-like, from an open window in a pouring rainstorm.
Grave of the Fireflies (d. Isao Takahata, 1988, Japan) A-
Courtesy of Ghibli Studio (the Japanese animation house where Takahata and Hayao Miyazaki were colleagues) comes a profound effort to translate the brutality and desperation of the Japanese experience during World War II into the traditional style of hand-drawn animation. Seita, a young teenager, is forced to care for his toddler sister Setsuko after their father departs to serve in the Japanese Navy and their mother dies, victim to an American napalm bomb. Those who assume animated movies are placating affairs directed at families and children will be proven wrong if they watch Grave of the Fireflies: despite moments of levity and solace, the movie's overwhelmingly bleak, and proceeds undeterred (and realistically) towards its inevitably heartbreaking conclusion.
Takahata employs static backgrounds comprised of desaturated, hazy colors — lots of browns, grays, blacks, and pale yellows — in order to evoke an atmosphere of hopelessness and pervasive warfare. Of course the unmoving backgrounds, so vastly different from the complex vistas created for latter-day Ghibli productions (not to mention the dazzling environments created by Pixar or other CGI-animation companies), is starkly unrealistic, as are the vivid facial expressions and gestures created for the characters; but that non-realism actually serves Grave of the Fireflies well, as it emphasizes the characters' unavoidable, cosmic fate and the extreme, abysmal situations in which they've been placed. (Call it neo-hyperrealism, maybe.) Yet there are also moments of great beauty (one montage sequence, bridged by a series of dissolves, segues from a flower-petal-strewn memory to a glorious cascade of white rice) as well as the fireflies themselves, which act as a potent all-encompassing symbol for both the joy and the misery that Seita and Setsuko experience.
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