Concerning Film: The Film Year in Review 2006

In true narcissistic fashion, I noticed that we were coming up on the Oscar ceremony this weekend, and realized, Wow! I need to get my picks for 2006 out there quickly. People need to know what I think. So here they are. As is usual, we are nearly two full months into the New Year, and I have yet to see many of the bigger films of 2006, for a variety of reasons. The movie theaters out here in California are extremely expensive, a $20 affair when it’s all added up: tickets, parking, and snacks. It has also become the custom for art house cinema to be left finding word-of-mouth interest lurking around in limited release in New York and L.A., hoping to create enough buzz to justify its wider release elsewhere and a more prolonged stay in theaters. Why has The Good German, for instance, been discussed almost none, and Ghost Rider is plastered on every bus stop billboard in the area? I suppose because a flaming skull is easier to market, a more recognizable symbol, like a stop sign, than, say, the broader concepts that true film art tends to concern itself with.

Children of Men

Alfonso Cuaron’s work in this film is phenomenal. Here is the best science fiction film since The Matrix, and a refreshingly intelligent piece of work at that. The subtleties in this movie are immense, and amount in total to a dark portrayal of mankind’s future as one of hopelessness, cynicism, and moral ambiguity. Children of Men is an important movie, reaching into a more daring subject, with surprising success.

The Departed

It isn’t easy to get me to be interested in crime drama. I’ve never found mafia movies to be wholeheartedly interesting; they need to succeed on some other level, as a criminal bent on getting rich is simply not an interesting enough motivation to drive a compelling story. More often than not, these kinds of films are driven by style, the factor of their “coolness” rising above any artistic considerations to grant them attention. But Scorsese, returning to his roots in many ways, has directed an intriguing story, filled with excellent performances in an airtight plot. It’s pacing, suspense, and cleverness all make The Departed a work of perfect craftsmanship. But it cannot rise higher than number 2, because Irish organized crime is simply not a subject of particularly high consequence.

Little Children

An excellent work of fiction, filled with complex and nuanced characters. Little Children is sometimes bogged down by Todd Field’s mundane directing. He captures perfectly the ennui of his characters’ existence, but I think Field is failing to appreciate the camera as tool for story telling, and not simply a tool for observation.

The House of Sand

Though this technically came out in 2005, I’m promoting it to this list as the best foreign film I saw last year. The location for this film is one of the most intriguing places I’ve seen appear on screen, enough so that I immediately did research to find out where it was, and how I could potentially visit. There is profound poetic vision in this movie from Brazil.

Little Miss Sunshine

Great comedic performances in a warm piece of fiction. Perfectly quirky, funny, and moral at the same time.

Borat

Nude wrestling for an unbearable amount of time for any sicko film goer. My grandparents went to see this movie, a testament to the power it wielded while in theaters. I only wish advertising and word of mouth with films like these didn’t always mean the good jokes are spoiled before I get to the theater.

Babel

I really appreciate what Iñárritu is doing in this, the third installment in a trilogy of films dealing with tragedies bringing together unlikely people. In Babel, he has shown worldliness, sensitivity to the cultures that make this planet and an understanding of the ugliness that threatens our survival in the chaos of constant cultural friction. What Iñárritu has done in Babel, is treat with equal respect and importance, both the decency and indecency inherent in all men.

The Fountain

I have a special bias toward Darren Aronofsky. His first two films were perfect. The Fountain does not accomplish what they did, but it is nevertheless appreciated for its daringness. Making a mainstream abstract film is suicide, but his stubbornness is what makes him an artist. Here is a film that asks for its audience to work hard at understanding it. And it seems to me that requiring an imagination from the audience isn’t such a bad idea.

United 93

Denouncing terrorism, aiding terrorism, peace, and war. These are all moral values that United 93 doesn’t concern itself with, making it a refreshing film for this kind of subject. September 11 is too sensitive an issue to be rendered on most filmmaker’s canvasses. But Paul Greengrass has chosen to approach it in the perfect fashion, without making a single judgment about the day, or the broader social, political, and moral significance. This film allows us to relive the simple shock of that day, and remember that brief phase of astonishment, which was later overshadowed by war and politics. Consider how he puts the passengers of United 93 and the hijackers into the same place at the same time, where both seem to be insignificant pawns in a greater worldwide ordeal.

Volver

It may seem odd to move a film to the top ten list, and subsequently speak negatively about it, but I will any way. With such few movies making it to local theaters that are of any artistic value, Volver makes it to the list by default, filling a space left vacant by the vacuum of art create in this big budget movie world. Almodovar is a fine artist, but I question the “so what” factor in his films. He brings together colorful characters, witty dialogue, rich scenes, and ends with a final product that seems pointless at times. Volver is entertaining from start to finish, but its value doesn’t stretch beyond the end credits. If fiction is meant to teach us something about human kind, Volver is void of lessons, and erupting with everything else that makes a great story. What is this movie about? As it stands, Volver is another installment in a long running serial that could be titled Almodovar’s Imagination. Perhaps, when he is finished making films, we will be able to speak of the real importance of his films as a collection, rather than individually.

The Awards:

I don’t really subscribe to this idea that the best director of the year did not make the best film. This is simply so the Academy can avoid choosing. This way they can give two best picture awards. My pick for best director is typically my pick for best film. It’s like saying the best book I’ve read isn’t necessarily to the credit of the writer. Perhaps it was the typesetting. But for this year, I can forgive splitting the award in two, because The Departed certainly showcases perfection in the craft of directing, without being the best film of the year.

Best Picture/Best Director: Children of Men
Best Director 2: Martin Scorsese, The Departed

Foreign Language Film: The House of Sand
Documentary Film: An Inconvenient Truth

Best Adapted Screenplay: Todd Field, Tom Perrotta, Little Children
Best Original Screenplay: Michael Arndt, Little Miss Sunshine

Best Actor: Leonardo DiCaprio, The Departed
Best Actress: Kate Winslet, Little Children
Supporting Actor: Mark Wahlberg, The Departed
Supporting Actress: Adriana Barraza, Babel

Best Editing: United 93

Cinematography: Children of Men

The award for, “Bomb the studios! It’s the worst piece of crap ever committed to celluloid”: The Da Vinci Code, though Tom Hanks’ insistence on taking his material so seriously may constitute the funniest performance of the year.

--Nick Denney

Concerning Greed: Now Arriving in the Land of Conspicuous Consumption

I have just recovered from a particularly exhausting weekend showing visitors around the city. Eliza and I entertained guests from Mexico for a couple of days, and now have mixed feelings about the meaning of the entire trip. Sure, it is always good to see family and friends. But in this case, it was watching family and friends, as they descended voluntarily into the bowels of the American addiction to excess.

On Saturday, we set out for the usual car site seeing tour, with the first stop designated as the Golden Gate Bridge. I by-passed the traffic laden Bay Bridge, and drove the more distant, but faster, route across the bay at Richmond Point and through Marin County. I searched my inventory of history and local lore to point out places on the way that might be of interest to the guests, who rode in the backseat more concerned with car sickness than the sites of Mt. Tamalpais or the views of the Bay. Eliza translated; sometimes I spoke broken Spanish to seem a bit less American. The hospitality these two had shown us on a past trip to the Yucatan I had not forgotten, and pledged to show the same. But it seemed, for them, that this trip was more about the shopping than culture or site seeing. We acquiesced, because, after all, it is America, and what is a more American experience than traipsing up steep hills all afternoon heavy with shopping bags?

We stopped first at the Golden Gate Bridge, joined the busy crowds for the obligatory photo-ops. We eyeballed the plaque explaining the monotonous construction of the building. The cables are really that thick? I have been to show other guests this bridge, at this very spot, an absurd number of times since moving here 14 months ago. This time was no different, as equally beautiful and pleasant as it was foolish and touristy. But with a warm and sunny February day in San Francisco, who could complain?

From there it was on to Lombard Street. We were making good progress, knocking out those sites one “simply has to see” in order to get down to the truly enjoyable of San Francisco. The culture that isn’t necessarily marked in pop-up maps or hotel pamphlets. From Lombard, we headed at their insistence to Fisherman’s Wharf. I half expected them to see how spuriously constructed the whole area was, grow disgusted with it, and beg that we forgo the contrivances for some place better. Then we could begin showing them “the city” we know.

But Fisherman’s Wharf is a trap for those who seek highly accessible tourism—nicely packaged local culture within a few blocks—and who hope to shell out cash at every corner. And we know there are those Americans whose greatest joy in traveling is not site seeing, eating, or art, but simply the exhilaration of flaunting their cash spending ability as conspicuously as if they were aristocrats parading through pre-revolutionary Paris. As it would turn out, these were our guests. We labored up and down the sidewalks of Jefferson Street for hours, watching them go in and out of every shop. Buying chocolate, video games, tee shirts with moronic slogans and cheap designs. We walked and paused. Browsed and bought. Conspicuous consumption abounding. There is no culture here, save that of American consumerism. Though there are delicious sourdough bowls of chowder. And look, they sell it in cans too. First rule in the business of tourism: Why sell just the experience, when you can package a take home version as well?

But it wasn’t only at the Wharf we found our guests enraptured with the abundance of American goods, and their cheap prices. It continued into North Beach, once we dropped off bags from the first round and geared up with more clothing for the cold night. I scored a prime spot on Columbus Avenue and my favorite of streets, Beach Blanket Babylon Boulevard. Not five steps from the car, they disappeared into some ethnic shop, and returned with a necklace. The price they were not shy about. We ate at an Italian Restaurant, and browsed those few stores still open afterwards. Never did they walk out of a shop without buying something.

The next day, it started again, though the style of shopping switched from tourist boutique to domestic practicality. First to the Berkeley Bowl, then to Walgreen’s, the Elephant Pharmacy. Cosmetics, toys, snacks, and all those worthless little knick-knacks one never sees anyone spend money on. The kinds of things my grandfather always thinks make great stocking stuffers. How would they have felt in a dollar store? We ended this shopping-spree at the Mecca for such consumption: Target, where cheap American goods come in abundance, and in a variety of shapes, colors and sizes. Manuel eyeballed the escalator going to yet another floor, with a fancy rig that carries your cart with you, and says to me: We don’t have this in Mexico. Does that make him less fortunate? Here was their grand finale, two carts full of badly made clothing, shoes, etc., much of which was likely manufactured in sweat shops back. Full circle.

I reflected on this trip for the next few days, wondering why it would be so shocking to see two citizens of the developing world come to this country and drop absurd amounts of money on insignificant junk. And that they would elect to do this above anything else. It seemed they were completely disinterested in the city, the culture, the people. If this is American tourism, why not build a giant shopping compound in the desert, and let tourist get lost in it for days? That would surely free up space in the cities, where those who actually live there can get around more easily, without a double-decker bus claiming a block’s worth of parking spots.

I am no stranger to American consumerism or this kind of conspicuous consumption. I see it every day; in fact, I am vocal about it too. We are, in America, by far the leading consumers in the world, and have profoundly integrated this lifestyle of consumption into our cultural canon. But I am not ready to loose the grip we hold on our own very real, very rich culture. It is not superior, nor is it even as rich (if such a subjective judgment can be made) as many far older places in the world. But it does exist, and it’s a culture that defines the more admirable traits of our national character.

These visitors showed little interest in this. They were apathetic to the Italian history of North Beach, as we ate pasta on Columbus Ave. They rarely looked up to notice the Bay Area’s geographic splendor. The local music, the Latin culture of The Mission, the revolutionary ghosts in Haight-Ashbury, the Victorian houses, Chinatown and the Chinese contribution to the San Francisco culture. Barely a nod.

The reason is that this—the real American culture—does not make it abroad. It Mexico, they see little to nothing of artistic America, historical America. They see only consumer America. I could notice this when I was in Mexico. Our ambassadors are Wal-Mart, Home Depot, and Starbucks. They are the ones marching the globe and “teaching” other cultures about us. They don’t see Jazz music or the Creole South. They see Britney Spears and GAP. It is no wonder that a visitor comes here looking for that “culture” they have been exposed to back home. This is the image of America we are projecting in the world. When we, as Americans, travel, we do so often because we’ve been teased by some element of a foreign culture, which is portraying itself positively. We don’t travel to see famine, poverty, blood revolutions, or bigotry. We travel in spite of the worst aspects of a culture. We travel to experience French cuisine, the wildlife of the Amazon, the temples of Jerusalem, the ruins of Angkor Wat. Why, then, would we want the world to see us for those, the saddest of our vices: Materialism and Geed?