The Weekly Gravy #151

“Peanuuuuuuuts…”

Since I read Zizz! recently, how about starting the week with some more shorts by Len Lye?

• Particles in Space (1979 – some sources say 1966 or 1980) – Lye’s last completed film, another work of direct animation, this one synchronized to Bahamian and Yoruba drum music. I’m still not a huge fan of direct animation, but this is one of the best examples of it I’ve seen, from the neat rotating effect he gives the credits to way the scratchy shapes evoke by turns stars, dust in the air, and static. As the page at the Lye Foundation site suggests, it’s a film full of zizz. Score: 85 – ***½
• Experimental Animation 1933 (The Peanut Vendor) (1933) – Probably Lye’s most infamous film, this stop-motion short features a monkey puppet dancing and lip-syncing to Red Nichols’ cover of the Cuban song “El manisero,” or “The Peanut Vendor,” a song I first knew from Duck Soup (“Peanuuuuuuts – to you!”) It’s a catchy tune, and the monkey is an impressive feat of puppet animation – his coiling tail is especially fluid. The elephants in the room are his wide, unblinking eyes (but they do roll!) and toothy grin; they’re well executed for whatever Lye had in mind, but it’s no surprise that he wasn’t able to sell this as a series. Score: uh…82 – ***½
• N or NW (1938) – And here we have Lye working with live actors; as with his masterpiece Rainbow Dance, it was made for the General Post Office Film Unit as an elaborate advertisement. Young lovers Evelyn (Evelyn Corbett) and Jack (Dwight Godwin), young lovers have quarreled and are trying to patch things up by mail. After they each struggle to find the right words (a process realized with stylized imagery full of superimpositions), Jack gets her address wrong – but the GPO takes care of it, and all ends happily. A charming little piece with some inventive touches, but it doesn’t reach the dazzling heights of Lye’s best GPO films. Score: 84 – ***½
• Color Cry (1953) – A “Direct Color Film,” apparently using a modification of Man Ray’s “rayograph” process, which gives us shifting forms and patterns, some looking like beams of light, others like plaid, set to a piece by blues harmonicist Sonny Terry; the effect is a bit like a homespun version of the Star Gate sequence in 2001. Quite cool to look at and at times exhilarating, though again it doesn’t quite reach greatness for me. Maybe I’m just tired. Score: 85 – ***½

Smoking Causes Caughing/Fumer fait tousser (2022) – ***

Note: I am counting this film towards 2023.

When Quentin Dupieux, whose first major film (Rubber) involved a murderous, psychokinetic tire – and was little concerned with telling even that story in any cohesive fashion – decides to make a superhero film, you can bet it’s going to be a long way from the MCU. You might not guess how far it gets from the superheroes it’s ostensibly about, but maybe if you’ve seen enough of Dupieux’s sizable filmography (nine films in the last 15 years) you won’t be surprised.

The Tobacco Force is a group of five superheroes who oppose the forces of evil using the destructive powers of smoking, reflected in their names: Benzène (Gilles Lellouch), Methanol (Vincent Lacoste), Nicotine (Anaïs Demoustier), Mercure/Mercury (Jean-Pascal Zadi), and Ammoniaque/Ammonia (Oulaya Amamra). They don’t smoke themselves, as Benzène informs a young fan; he points out that the boy’s father, who smokes, looks stupid for it.

When we meet the Tobacco Force, they’re fighting Tortusse, a giant tortoise who can’t be bested in hand-to-hand combat but can be “given a cancer” with their carcinogenic beams, or some such; there’s a hiccup when Mercure struggles to summon his beam, which the others argue is due to faltering sincerity on his part.

After destroying Tortusse, their leader, Chief Didier (performed by Alain Chabat) notes their faltering team spirit and orders them on a retreat; he is, for what it’s worth, a rat with green goo dripping from his mouth, portrayed by a very obvious puppet, and he flirts shamelessly with Nicotine and Ammoniaque. He also notes that an old enemy, Lézardin (Benoît Poelvoorde), an “Emperor of Evil,” is planning to destroy the Earth.

But that’s not really a pressing matter, and most of the rest of the film is taken up with the Force hanging around at their retreat, telling macabre stories and trying to sort out their personal issues before Lézardin rears his ugly head.

Simply put, if you liked Rubber, you’ll like Smoking; it doesn’t quite wear its randomness and absurdity on its sleeve the same way that film did, but it sure embodies it from the opening sequence, when a family on vacation stops to watch them fight Tortusse, are doused by the villain’s viscera when he’s vanquished, and then take selfies with the Force, their clothes still soaked with blood. If that sounds funny to you, you’re off to a good start. I thought it was hilarious, and I kept laughing through most of the film.

On an objective level, it’s fine for what it’s trying to be. Technically, aside from some fun elements of production design (the supermarket-refrigerator is a great touch), the main attractions are the “Monstres & SFX” credited to Olivier Alfonso, who’d previously worked on the fantastic makeup in Titane. Obviously, the highlight among the monsters is Chief Didier, who’s wonderfully gross (he’s like if Rizzo the Rat got cancer and joined the Paris company of Avenue Q), but there’s also Tortusse, the barracuda, Norbert 500 the robot assistant, and his replacement, Norbert 1200. And on the makeup-effects front, one of the stories involves some incredibly gory body horror which is executed at the appropriate level; well enough to firmly land the joke, but not so well that it becomes upsetting.

Otherwise, it’s well-enough made, but the filmmaking is mostly there to keep the ridiculousness properly framed and paced. (I was prepared to praise the score, but while the music is great, it’s mostly taken from the works of electronic composer Mort Garson.) Likewise, the acting is what it needs to be – Zadi is especially likable – but the characters are subordinate to the randomness and silliness of Dupieux’s script, in many respects the true star of the film. And again, if you’re in the proper mindset, or just have the right sense of humor, it’s a treat. (More of a treat than “galactic soup,” I’m sure.)

While I could quibble about the lack of super-heroics after the opening sequence (even super-heroics of a farcical variety), it’s in keeping with Dupieux’s absurd vision to subvert our expectations at every turn. That could simply be maddening to watch, and I suppose for some it will be, but there’s a wholeheartedness to it – a true belief in the joys of complete illogic – that keeps me smiling.

Score: 76

Shortcomings (2023) – ***½

Ben Tanaka is the kind of character you simultaneously cringe at and sympathize with. On the one hand, he’s cynical, quick to escalate an argument, slow to apologize and slower to make any changes in his life, which revolves around managing a dying independent cinema in Berkeley, watching classic films, hanging out with his friend Alice, and gradually alienating his girlfriend Miko. Did I mention he went to film school, dropped out to make a movie his way, and fell on his face?

You’ll likely cringe at Ben because he’s such a pill – even if you agree with his point that representation doesn’t make a hackneyed romantic comedy a better film (an obvious dig at Crazy Rich Asians) – and you might cringe at him because he’s such a quintessential indie film protagonist (I did – frustrated liberal-arts majors don’t just live on the coasts and work in cinemas!), but by the end of the film you’ll likely also empathize with his frustration, his profound insecurity, and how he’s gradually moving towards maturity.

That’s a tribute to Justin H. Min’s performance as Ben, which shows what truly makes Ben happy – when he allows himself to be truly happy – and how he tries to make his own happiness happen, only for his irritability and defensiveness to assert themselves. In particular, the moments when Ben puts his foot in his mouth and desperately tries to paper over his error, moments which are so transparent they’re at once hilarious and painful, are masterfully performed by Min.

It’s also a tribute to Adrian Tomine’s screenplay, based on his graphic novel, which grasps the complexity of its characters to a degree that belies the indie-film tropes on display. Just as we get a full sense of Ben’s faults and virtues, with Alice we have her lively wit and supportive friendship, but we also have her hypocrisy (“Just because I’m a hypocrite doesn’t mean I’m wrong”), her own immaturity, and with it her reluctance to own her own behavior – though she, like Ben, is doing better by the end – which all come through in Sherry Cola’s fine performance, a neat counterpoint to her work in Joy Ride.

And with Miko, we can deeply sympathize with her growing tired of Ben’s attitude and her desire to get away and make a fresh start (there’s a distinct catharsis in their final scene together), while recognizing that she lied and kept doing so past the point of necessity and has taken up with a man (Leon (Timothy Simons)) who’s in his own, well-meaning way quite ridiculous. Ally Maki, for her part, gives a nicely textured performance, both at showing her weariness with Ben and her blossoming happiness in her new life.

Even smaller characters like Sasha (Debby Ryan), whom Ben dates briefly, and Gene (Jacob Batalon), who works for Ben at the theater, are solidly drawn, fitting into Ben’s journey without feeling like they exist only to facilitate it. Some characters do slip into caricature – Autumn (Tavi Gevinson), an eccentric artist Ben flirts with, is a bit too broad – but the more I think about it, the more I appreciate what this film has to offer; like its protagonist, it deepens and matures as it goes along.

It also marks Randall Park’s debut behind the camera. I’ve admired his acting – his Kim Jong-un in The Interview was wonderful – and while it’s not the most distinctive effort, he balances the tone well (again, more the more we get into the story), and in scenes like the final montage where Ben imagines the other characters embracing their own happiness, he shows a solid eye. More memorable is Gene Back’s score, whose brightness keeps us from sinking into nihilism like Ben seems inclined to.

Shortcomings isn’t quite a great film – for me, it’s a just a bit too tied to indie comedy-drama tropes, never quite spreading its wings enough to rise above them – but as a portrait of characters who are realistically flawed and realistically capable of growth, and as a self-aware piece of representation – Ben’s complicated relationship to his ethnicity, Alice’s inability to come out to her parents, and Miko’s political awareness all factor into the script – it’s quite a good one.

Score: 83

The Ten Commandments (1956) – ****

The only time I’d seen The Ten Commandments all the way through, close to 20 years ago now, I wrote “the first half goes from entertaining to agonizingly boring, while the second half is largely on the positive side,” and noted the “fairly good acting” – too straightforward a take, I think, for a film I now see in a more positive, but considerably more complex light. For The Ten Commandments sits at the intersection of ritual drama, Cold War allegory, and epic kitsch – it’s a rebuke of the Golden Calf with all that money can buy, including an all-star cast, an army of extras, vast sets, elaborate costumes, and legendary special effects.

Taking the film as a ritual drama helps to explain two of its most contested elements: the acting and the writing. It’s unapologetically heightened in both respects, and while some of the cast cope with the style better than others, those who adapt best really do shine; Charlton Heston’s Moses is as steadfast and righteous as a prophet of God who’d stand toe-to-toe with the most powerful man on Earth should be, and as that man, Yul Brynner’s Rameses is by turns wonderfully arrogant and pathetically insecure.

As for the writing, there are lines that work well – “A city is built of brick, Pharaoh. The strong make many. The starving make few. The dead make none” – and lines that make one snicker – “Does it take the whole Nile to quench your thirst?” “No, just your lips” – but if you take the film as a stylized vision trying to split the difference between entertainment and devotion, it works far better than if you try to take it at face value.

Of course, as a devotional work it’s very much a reflection of its times and the man who made it. Cecil B. DeMille, whose last film this was, was a legend in his own time, at once a master of sensational spectacle with, to quote Sullivan’s Travels, “a little sex in it,” a staunch conservative, a devout Episcopalian, and a boundlessly confident showman. He even appears at the start of the film to introduce it and establish its piety and importance up front (“Our intention was not to create a story, but to be worthy of a divinely inspired story”). But he also narrates it, and during the Golden Calf orgy, you can practically hear him winking at us as he bemoans the Israelites’ sinful behavior.

By the same token, when he says “Are men the property of the state or are they free souls under God? This same battle continues throughout the world today” during the introduction, he doesn’t need to specify that he’s thinking of those godless Commies. In fact, DeMille would partner with the Fraternal Order of Eagles to place Ten Commandments monuments around the country, to promote both his film and his values – which have led to much debate and litigation over the decades over whether these and similar monuments violate the separation of church and state. (The first Eagles auxiliary was founded in my hometown. The more you know.)

And then there’s the matter of the film as an epic, and a piece of epic kitsch. Six of its seven Oscar nominations were for technical categories, all of which testify to its sweeping scale: it was nominated for its cinematography, editing, art direction, costume design, sound, and special effects, winning the last (over Forbidden Planet). It certainly makes with the sets and costumes, which are both impressive in their ambition and variety and charmingly gaudy; it’s hard to deny the effects, which are at once enduringly effective (the blue-green mist that is the Angel of Death, the pillar of holy fire, the parting of the Red Sea) and awkwardly obvious (any number of blue-screen shots).

The cinematography, especially after Moses falls from royal favor, is quite good (that first shot of the Angel of Death passing over the Moon is really something), even if it can’t hide the difference between the real locations and soundstages. The sound is properly thunderous, and most ambitious in the scenes where God speaks (even if it’s now obvious that it’s Heston doing the voice in the burning-bush scene). And the editing, contrary to my old opinion, keeps the film moving, if not briskly, at a suitable pace across its 231 minutes.

Strangely, the Academy overlooked Elmer Bernstein’s classic score, just as they ignored DeMille in Best Director (a far, far better job of direction than in The Greatest Show on Earth) and neglected to nominate any members of the huge cast; Brynner would win an Oscar that year for The King and I and Heston would win for Ben-Hur three years later, but veterans Cedric Hardwicke (who’s really very good as the avuncular Sethi) and Edward G. Robinson (who’s a slimy bastard as the proto-kapo Dathan) were never nominated, and in a year when The Bad Seed earned three acting nominations, to slight Anne Baxter’s great, sensuously scheming Nefretiri and Nina Foch’s fine, sympathetic Bithiah is a shame.

But they did nominate it for Best Picture, and while my own vote, given the nominees, would be for the 20th-century epic Giant, I think this would’ve held up better than Around the World in 80 Days has (even if John Carradine has more to do in that film than he does here as Aaron). It is, after all, not just one of the biggest hits of all time, but an enduring favorite which has been re-released multiple times and televised annually around Passover.

If it seems like my thoughts on this film are all over the place, it’s because I find myself full of ideas on how to approach it, on how to weigh its strengths against its shortcomings, its populist religiosity against its fundamentally worthy message, its splashy kitsch against its genuinely powerful aspects. It’s a great film, possessed of a very strange kind of greatness.

So let it be written. So let it be done.

Score: 88

Talk to Me (2022) – ***½

It’s fitting, given William Friedkin’s recent passing, that The Exorcist comes to mind. In my review of that film, I note that much of its power comes from how well it roots its horror in the relatable and recognizable; the terror of illness, the fears of parents for their children and of children for their parents, and the dread of self-doubt all give the supernatural elements a firm foundation to build upon.

So it is with Talk to Me, a very good (if not truly great) horror film which grounds its story in universal emotions of grief, driving curiosity, and the terror of losing control, and in one of the more realistic depictions of teenage culture I’ve seen in a film. It executes the supernatural horror extremely well, but take that away and you would still have an effective drama.

Mia (Sophie Wilde) has yet to come to terms with her mother’s death, and when she learns about a viral challenge in which the participants grasp a mysterious ceramic hand and use it to view the spirit world, it’s only a matter of time before her mother’s spirit – or something claiming to be – gets through to her. And it’s only a matter of time before something goes horribly wrong and sets Mia (and many others) down a path towards greater suffering.

But as simple and compelling a symbol as the hand is, and as elaborately gruesome as the spirits we see are (the makeup is magnificent throughout), that’s not what resonated with me. Rather, it was the relationships between Mia and her best friend Jade (Alexandra Jensen), between Mia and Jade’s little brother Riley (Joe Bird), between Riley and his vaguely delinquent best friend James (James Oliver), between Mia, Jade, and Daniel (Otis Dhanji) – Jade’s boyfriend and Mia’s sort-of ex – and between them and Hayley (Zoe Terakes) and Joss (Chris Alosio), who first bring the hand into the picture.

All of these ring extremely true, thanks to the honest writing, the realistic performances, and the direction which guided them. Mia’s fascination with the hand, her willingness to test the limits of its use, her paralytic guilt when all goes wrong, and her desperate attempts to put things right work as well as Riley’s desire to prove himself beyond his years and his fear of being seen as weak and immature even as he senses the dangers of the hand. (We never do learn anything concrete about the hand itself, only rumors – which is just as well.)

And the relationships between the teenagers and the adult characters, especially Jade and Riley’s mother Sue (Miranda Otto), who’s determined not to be outwitted to the point of embarrassing her children in front of their friends, and Mia’s father Max (Marcus Johnson), who’s not much for consolation even as he grapples with his own grief, remind me of my own adolescence. Adult suspicions and teenage evasions have long done such a dance.

Wilde gives a sincere performance that dips into raspy creepiness during the channeling scenes (as shown in the trailer), but remains entirely believable in depicting Mia’s relationships and the emotional stumbling blocks which remain very much in place even as she grapples with unforeseen circumstances. Jensen, Bird, and Otto are all very fine as the family who are closer to her than her own father, but who find themselves in jeopardy because of her actions and aren’t as understanding as she would hope. Terakes is also quite good as Hayley, initially smug and abrasive (Hayley doesn’t much like Mia), but realistically softening as things go wrong, and Alosio is every cool older brother whose own relative youth comes out when the chips are down.

Writer-directors Danny and Michael Philippou have been running the RackaRacka YouTube channel for a decade now; I’m not familiar with its content, but apparently it focuses on short-form comedy horror. There’s humor in Talk to Me, of course, some of it quite gross (people do strange things when in the hand’s thrall), but it never dilutes the horror, and the film never struggles to fill its 95 minutes. It’s a fine, confident debut.

It’s well shot and edited, has excellent sound (the sound effects, especially when the characters are first seized by the spirits, are quite disturbing), and boasts brilliant makeup, some of it fantastically grotesque, some of it horribly realistic. And it builds to an ending that manages to be haunting but not gratuitously bleak and manages to leave room for a sequel (already in the works – God forbid they reveal too much about the hand) without leaving us hanging. That’s a pretty solid feat for what could’ve been just another teen horror film.

Score: 84

Visual music in McLaren’s Synchromy.

Wrapping the week up with some more shorts, these by Norman McLaren (these are for you, Michael!):

• Scherzo (1939) – Subtitled “A Non-Objective Study,” it features pink-purple shapes darting about on a green background (they make me think of blood cells), with odd noises on the soundtrack created, as the film was, by drawing on the film itself. One of the first McLaren films I’d ever heard of – it had its own entry in VideoHound – it doesn’t amount to much beyond a cute experiment, but at barely a minute long, it goes down easily. Score: 71 – ***
• Dots (1940 – possibly not released until 1949) – Following on from Scherzo, we have blue-green shapes on a red background, doing more elaborate movements, synchronized more precisely with a more extensive soundtrack of handcrafted jazz (which sounds a bit like a synthesizer being played underwater). Still basically a proof of concept, but Scherzo walked so this could run. Score: 74 – ***
• Begone Dull Care (1949) – Co-created with Evelyn Lambart, this is generally regarded as one of McLaren’s masterworks. I remember seeing it before and not quite feeling it, but I get it now. Bringing to visual life the jazz music of the Oscar Peterson Trio, it’s in three parts. The first, fast-paced part (my least favorite) features a barrage of images, many appearing for only a few frames, most abstract or only crudely representative. The second, slower part features only white lines swaying on a black background. The last part resumes the initial pace and visual variety, but with the greater control of the second part. The cumulative effect is quite impressive, and the music is delightful. Score: 87 – ****
• Synchromy (1971) – Later McLaren, in a way combining the style of Scherzo and Dots with the 30 years of experience he’d gained – and the greater resources he had access to. Essentially, the film’s soundtrack was created by photographing a series of lines drawn by McLaren, which were then photographed and colorized to create literal visual music. It lacks the freedom of those films, but it’s quite smartly pulled off – though photo-sensitive viewers should stay away. Score: 79 – ***½