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Posts Tagged ‘Jon Avnet’s 88 Minutes’

Self-professed film aficionados lead difficult lives. We spend hours dissecting films; even the really bad ones are dissected for no particular reason than for the writers to brand themselves as morose intellectuals with good taste in art, who are interesting to talk to and incredible to fuck with next to scented candles (I can’t prove it or anything but I hear that once we’ve trashed enough films, the government release nanorobots into our organs to make lovemaking more euphoric). Of course we needn’t feel bad. It isn’t our fault that films don’t understand just how incredibly complex and generally incredible our psyche is. We just need to keep pissing into the wind and find cleverer ways to make light of the blood, sweat and tears shed by people who think they understand films just because they make them.

We look down on IMDB users. We hate Catherina Zeta Jones. Every weekend we download independent films with the lowest possible budgets and then pretend to support the directors.

You want more proof that bloggers who trash films are wankers? Here’s another pretending to know a good film from a bad one.

The Last Broadcast: Finally, a low-budget horror film that I won’t try stuffing down your throats. Directors Stefan Avalos and Lance Weiler have tried really hard to creep us out and as noble as their intentions were, the execution turned out sloppier than unprotected cuddling between former lovers. Botched dramatic improvisation even kills the tension the film’s first five minutes somehow manages to build. Maybe these ‘actors’ weren’t technically supposed to act in Last Broadcast considering its style of narration, but they come across as anxious pastiches of a high school art-house film crew. Stefan’s The Ghosts of Edendale and Lance’s Head Trauma still sound worth checking out because you never can be fully sure about these indie fellows.

Batman Begins: I can’t argue that it was Hollywood’s most faithful interpretation of Bob Kane’s vision, but to associate so much credibility to it is just silly. Tim Burton‘s caricaturization during the early Nineties was laughable at best while Joel Schumacher made Nicholas Cage sit through snuff porn in his next film just to reclaim his credibility with film-goers. Sure, Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins was miles ahead in terms of authenticity and general aesthetics, but honestly, how difficult did you think that was? The film passed our litmus test even before it was released. From the moment we heard that the guy from Machinist was being groomed by the guy who directed Memento to replace George Clooney as our most favourite superhero in the whole wide world, I think we collectively gasped in joy without second guessing. Truth be told, Bale’s only passable as Batman and sometimes downright ridiculous as Bruce Wayne. He channels American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman without realizing that only one of them is actually a sociopath; the other only fakes it to lead a normal life. I blame it all on Lee Strasberg. Method acting, my ass.

Michael Caine’s portrayal of Alfred isn’t any better, it’s a far cry from the swank stoicism that the character was once legendary for. Seriously, which godforsaken issue has ever had him cracking bland homoerotic jokes while master Wayne battles for his life? As for Katie Holmes, she’s either Catherine Zeta Jones in disguise or the known universe is far crueler than I have thought it to be. Even Liam Neeson is an abomination; Raz Al Ghul‘s supposed to be a badass existential eco-terrorist, not the bastard fruit that fell from the loins of David Blaine, Morpheus and Al Gore.

What is all the hype about Nolan anyway? Memento was about twenty minutes too long. Insomnia had one the least likable Al Pacino performances. The Prestige was sheepishly mesmerizing at best and a Joker-less The Dark Knight would have been both propagandistic and boring. Maybe people just can’t love him enough for his debut. Now that was a good movie.

88 Minutes:As far as I’m concerned, Al Pacino has only looked comfortable playing dorky victims of dire circumstances. In films like Scarecrow or Dog Day Afternoon, he was completely believable as the average guy who has had his life turned upside down, inside out; all twitchy and restless, he had us hanging on to his character’s quirks, righteously mongering our sympathy in the process. Taylor Hackford’s The Devil’s Advocate was perhaps the first unavoidable indication that Al Pacino could really suck too. I mean, you don’t exactly have to ooze charisma when your character has such a fabled history of ironic sophistication as Satan did and yet Pacino managed to make it offensively theatrical, often dueling with Keanu Reeves to see who could make the most inappropriate sex faces during dramatic scenes.

In Jon Avnet’s 88 Minutes, he gives his character so many different dimensions that GPS-enabled rhombuses could have lost their way in there. Maybe Dr Jack Gramm had multiple personality disorder in the original script and somebody forgot to inform him about its last-minute exclusion or Pacino was desperately trying a million different things to bring back his credibility as a performer, either way it had too much of negative impact on the film for me to even bring up Alicia Witt’s blindingly horrific acting. I’m telling you, minions, watch William Friedkin’s Cruising and then Godfather I, II or III. He just isn’t the same actor. If you can’t see the difference, then we just don’t see eye-to-eye on films. Also, you are a stupid idiot of a nonsense fool and you will punished for your insolence. Hmpf.

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