If a man stands and watches as a crime is committed, and chooses not to intervene, is he somehow culpable? What is the difference between someone who sins and someone who wants desperately to, but refrains out of fear? Where is the line between perverse fascination and romantic love?
These are just a few of the questions that arise when watching Four Nights with Anna, the first picture in over 15 years from Polish filmmaker Jerzy Skolimowski. The script, co-written by Skolimowski and first-timer Eva Piaskowska, is a gripping character study of Leon, a timid man approaching middle age who has voyeuristic tendencies (to put it mildly). An intriguing story in its own right, Leon’s tale is made all the more provocative by the unconventional structure of Skolimowski’s narrative, which complicates interpretation of the film in wonderful ways.
Leon lives with his ailing grandmother in a small community in the Polish countryside where the sky is always overcast. He works at a crematorium. At night he watches Anna, a nurse and the object of his longings, through her window. From what little we learn, she seems entirely normal and unremarkable. She is unaware of Leon’s existence though she lives in a house separated from his by only a small, muddy field. The story is put in motion when Leon devises a scheme to drug her so that he may sneak through a window into her room at night.
As if it wasn’t discomforting enough to watch him methodically execute this plan, the film cuts periodically to scenes in which Leon is being interrogated on charges of rape. Are they flashbacks or flash-forwards? It’s intentionally ambiguous. In any case, we’re set up for the worst. The camera assumes Leon’s point of view while he peeps, and it appears, initially, that this may just be a sick, exploitative fantasy – albeit, a gorgeous looking one. Throughout Four Nights with Anna, the low key lighting is perfectly ominous, the camerawork is smooth and efficient, and Skolimowski’s direction impresses in a manner that’s understated and unobtrusive.
Once Leon steps inside Anna’s room, however, things get a good deal more interesting, and it becomes clear that this craftsmanship has not all gone to waste. Leon stops short of molestation. So what does he do in there? He tiptoes around and examines her things. He covers her with a blanket; he mends her shirt with a needle and thread. Skolimowski renders Anna’s room a treasure chest when, in actuality, it’s quite cluttered and mundane. “Just like you wanted, Grandma,” Leon says later. “I’m seeing a woman.”
Leon is played by Artur Steranko, who performs the bedroom scenes with just the right mix of reverence and dread, shyness and desperation, trepidation and anticipation. His performance is vastly creepy and punctuated by moments of sweetness. In many ways, Leon is somewhat average. He is not particularly smart or slow. He fails in his attempts to be furtive (tumbling out of her window into the mud, and so on). He is disturbed, certainly, but he does not appear to be a complete psychopath – which, in turn, makes him that much scarier, his behavior that much more inexplicable. It should be noted that the film’s excellent score, composed by Michal Lorenc, also contributes greatly to the unnerving vibe and overall sense of suspense; though, naturally, a film about trespassing engenders a great deal of suspense.
The aforementioned flashback/forward device helps make Four Nights with Anna successful because it forces the viewer to constantly reevaluate what’s come before, and from multiple angles. Likewise, as the film progresses, earlier flashbacks and the assumptions that came with them require reconsideration. Whatever way you want to look at it, it’s Leon that’s being examined and reexamined, and this sentiment is echoed in the film’s interrogation and courtroom scenes. Skolimowski dares the audience to judge him again and again, and each time he reveals another twist. He never portrays Leon as a hero – it would be reckless, even dangerous, to condone such behavior, and with that in mind, Leon does pay for his misdeeds. But neither does he demonize him. Rather, Leon is shown as a human, flawed, capable of both good and bad, and ultimately his comeuppance is wrought not with retribution but with pathos.
The Yellow Handkerchief is that odd road trip movie that forgoes montages and a hip soundtrack in favor of quiet conversation and pregnant glances. Udayan Prasad’s film, loosely based on the 1971 Pete Hamill short story “Going Home,” follows an unlikely trio of outsiders cruising through rural Louisiana with little agenda and plenty of emotional baggage. These are lonely individuals, down on their luck, but they are decent folk, and good-natured. Unfortunately, for all its modest charms, the film mirrors its subjects in that it never goes much of anywhere.
At the heart of The Yellow Handkerchief is Brett (William Hurt), a laconic, middle-aged badass who sports a jean jacket, tattoos, and a moustache that demands respect. Hurt deftly captures the dual essence of Brett, a man simultaneously affable and intimidating; when he’s not wrangling gators or punching out windows, his speech is measured, his smile gentle and slight. As the movie begins, Brett steps out of prison following a six-year sentence and steps into an old convertible with Martine and Gordy, a couple of angsty, hormonal teenagers. It’s chance that brings these three strangers together one hot afternoon.
Kristen Stewart plays Martine, and much as she did in Twilight, she imbues her character with attitude and intrigue even when the script does not. Gordy (Eddie Redmayne) is nervous and spastic. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have unusually wide shoulders and a small, tapering waist,” he says, a goofy grin transfixed on his face, as he models a new coat.
As they set out on their journey to nowhere specific, the crew exhibits a comforting warmness. They are cute together, awkward, and their banter and bickering holds a tranquil allure, even as it turns to abandonment issues, which it often does. These characters are endearing; they’re well-meaning and well-acted enough to make them very attractive traveling partners.
One assumes, however, that something is eventually supposed to happen to them, and it’s the plot (and the way the plot’s conveyed) that gives the film trouble. The true meat of the storyline, involving Brett and a lost love named May (Maria Bello), takes place before he was incarcerated, and is relayed through a cumbersome flashback mechanism. The story of Brett and May – a beautiful, weathered woman – is a fine one, touching and sad. It is also quite straightforward. The flashbacks, however, which appear with increasing frequency until they become the primary source of action, needlessly convolute the saga of their relationship, perhaps in an effort to compensate for its simplicity.
Also of concern is the near total absence of action back in the present day. These characters do little more than talk and drive during their time together. Admittedly, some of their conversations are quite lovely. It’s enjoyable to watch as their bond of friendship forms and they grow to trust one another. But they have very few actual experiences on their trek – at least, very few that appear to impact them in a meaningful way. They stay at a roach motel; they hit a deer. The drama of the film seems better suited to the confinements of a stage set than to the lush, wide expanses of the Louisiana countryside.
I found myself wondering how the gang might react, were they to stop at some tacky roadside attraction; or how they’d be affected by a run-in with their version of Large Marge, that notorious truck driver, or George Hansen, the drunken ACLU lawyer. I admit, those may be the words of my inner road trip movie fan – but even so, these characters could’ve grown so much more if they’d had some significant interaction with people outside their little circle.
That said, the insulated nature of the narrative, frustrating as it is at times, does underscore the connection formed between the characters – this movie is very much about friendship. And if that sounds cutesy and light, well, it is. Although the film’s mood begins to shift from contemplative to melancholic around the midway point, the picture never becomes more serious than its story warrants. That was probably a wise decision on the part of Prasad and the screenwriter, Eric Dignam, because light as it may be at times, The Yellow Handkerchief is neither frivolous nor trivial.
Ben Stiller has spoken: white guys in fat suits dancing to hip-hop are funny. Following the end credits of the 2004 Stiller vehicle Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story, the actor sits shirtless in a grotesque fat suit singing “Milkshake,” a then-popular tune by the sultry singer Kelis. For his latest comedy, Tropic Thunder, Stiller hands the reigns to Tom Cruise, whose career has sunk so low that he dons a bald cap and fat suit to play a malicious movie exec named Les Grossman (he just might be Jewish) who constantly screams obscenities, and yes, dances to hip-hop in the film’s stirring finale. More miraculous is that for Cruise, this actually constitutes damage control.
Tropic Thunder is a better film that Dodgeball, mainly because of Robert Downey Jr.’s performance as Kirk Lazarus, a method actor who has undergone a pigment darkening surgery in order to portray a black man in the movie within the movie, also called Tropic Thunder. An action star (Ben Stiller), a comedian (Jack Black), and a rapper (Brandon T. Jackson) round out the cast, and Tropic Thunder follows their follies as they attempt to shoot an epic war film deep in the jungle.
Few actors could get away with wearing blackface through the whole of a major Hollywood movie, but if it’s anyone, it’s Downey Jr., who steals all his scenes and throws all his chops into creating a dedicated, misguided, and overextended thespian. Less interesting is watching a limited actor portray a talentless one, as is the case with Stiller and the action hero he plays, Tugg Speedman, a variation on the arrogant but well-meaning idiot he perfected in Zoolander. Downey Jr. also brings a low-key sense of humor to the film, which, aurally and visually, subscribes to the everything-louder-than- everything-else aesthetic.
The worst culprit in this regard is Jack Black, wasted here, who plays comedian Jeff Portnoy and is given little to do but scream “Yeah!” Black’s best scene is his first, a mock trailer for a Portnoy film called The Fatties: Fart 2, in which he wears (you guessed it) fat suits and plays a farting family in a spoof of crap like Eddie Murphy’s Nutty Professor sequel, The Klumps. Danny McBride, as a raucous redneck in the film crew, is also responsible for a lot of shouting; it’s debatable whether exclaiming “Big ass titties!” before detonating a bomb qualifies as comedy (though I found it hilarious).
The film has generated a great deal of hype, both good and bad, due to Downey Jr.’s character, and its treatment of “retards” (more unfunny than offensive), and its supposedly scathing indictment of the film industry. With regards to the final point, Tropic Thunder does have some good laughs at Hollywood’s expense, as in the mock trailers which open the film, and the clever entertainment news segments which dote endlessly on moronic actors. Matthew McConaughey, amiable as always, plays an agent (also a moron) responsible for managing prima donna movie star Tugg Speedman. And then, of course, there’s Cruise, whose Grossman represents all that’s immoral in Hollywood, like Ari Gold with none of the heart. But the satire is all surface deep. Ultimately, Cruise is just playing a fat guy that dances to hip-hop, and one can hardly think that would rile too many folks in the film industry.
In Grand Theft Auto IV, the long-awaited new chapter in the wildly popular franchise from Rockstar Games, the player takes control of Niko Bellic, a sardonic badass and Serbian immigrant who steps off the boat and immediately becomes entangled in the criminal underworld of Liberty City. Niko, brilliantly voiced by Michael Hollick, is about as charming as stone cold killers come; his "What, me worry?" attitude and low-key sense of humor help him navigate the city's web of drug dealers and other sordid gangsters (as well as the dating scene) with ease.
As great as Niko is, though, he's never the star of the game. That honor is reserved for the city itself, Liberty, which is really an undisguised New York, and which is as close as a console game has ever come to a living, breathing, modern metropolis. In keeping with the game's tone, this New York is always presented with some degree of derision (Times Square, here called Star Junction, is "A great place to go if you love advertising" reads the guidebook, i.e. instruction manual). But the superb attention to detail--from the Cyclone at Coney Island, to the Unisphere at the old World's Fair grounds, to the Metropolitan Opera House--betrays a great deal of affection from the game's designers, as well. There are literally hours of pleasure to be derived from driving around the city's four boroughs (Staten Island is omitted; instead we get a portion of suburban New Jersey) in search of your favorite landmarks. But the virtual world within Liberty, the media inside the game, is even more compelling.
Star Junction.
Back at Niko's apartment, you can watch television--for quite a long time. Choose from programming like "I'm Rich," a spoof of shows like VH1's "The Fabulous Life Of..." which is much more entertaining (and raw--apparently there's no FCC in this world) than its source material; an hysterical documentary on the history of Liberty City; and a cartoon called "Republican Space Rangers," which takes our nation's war on terror (the game's greatest source of comedic material) to other galaxies. When the shows pause for commercials, you'll see ads for the same mock products being hawked on billboards out in the street.
Hop online at an internet cafe and you can send emails that open up new missions and further your progress in the game. Stay online and surf through the boatloads of content that exist only because (1) they are hilarious, and (2) because the game creators went above and beyond with just about everything in GTA IV. Kill the head honcho at a high-profile law firm, and shortly thereafter you'll find a story about the murder on the Liberty Tree newspaper's website. Or check out one of the dozens of other sites, like CrapList.net (read: Craig's List), "an online forum where users can sell stolen bicycles and meet up at lunch to give each other head" (Thankfully you can't do either of those things in the game). In many ways, this is what GTA IV is all about: scathing, pointed satire mixed with sophomoric vulgarity.
The radio commercials and talk stations, which lampoon everything from reality T.V. ("Waning With The Stars") to Axe Body Spray, work in much the same way. While listening to the news, you'll hear updates which reflect the world around you, like bridge openings or closings, for example. The music stations introduce another impressive element. While driving through Liberty City, you can tune to stations (most feature between 10 and 20 songs apiece) dedicated to genres including funk, jazz, Latin, dancehall, hip-hop, indie rock, R&B, hardcore punk--even a station that exclusively plays Bob Marley and the Wailers (with one Stephen Marley track thrown in for good measure). It's an incredible cross-section of American and international popular (and not so popular) music.
Just don't call him Russian.
The true meat of the gameplay has not changed drastically from previous installments. As far as the missions go, one of the amusing caricatures for whom you work (the steroid nut, the Rasta) generally assigns you with the task of driving (or perhaps taking the subway) to a specific place in the sprawling city to pick up goods, or drop them off, or spy on someone. Regardless of what it is, you usually have to kill a guy, or lots of guys. The use of a cell phone for calling, texting, and even picture messaging (all essential, at times, in completing your tasks) is quite clever. Still, it feels pretty much the same as it did in the past few GTAs, only better: a better weapon aiming system, more nuanced assignments, and far superior graphics.
Powering through the missions and advancing the plot (Niko's backstory and his true motivations are gradually revealed) is great--when you feel like it. And that's always been the beauty of the Grand Theft Auto games: now more than ever, you play however you want. Don't feel like running guns for a thug? Snag a cop car, access the police computer, and hunt down criminals, vigilante style. Not in the mood for (that kind of) action? Hit up a strip club and get a lap dance. Hunt for ramps in deserted back alleys; rev up your engine and try a death defying jump. Try online dating. Go bowling with one of your homeboys, or hit up a pool hall, or throw darts at a dive bar. Or maybe just kick back at the crib and watch some television.
It would be an understatement to say that our nation has hit a rough patch. From soaring gas prices, to the war in Iraq, to the subprime mortgage whatever, the U.S. of A is embroiled in tumultuous times. As the Dems continue to undercut themselves in an ugly, endless primary, and the Mets sleepwalk through game after game, the ruthless New York media censuring them at every turn, one thing is clear--it's time for some unity.
Enter the Golden Arches. Enter the Southern Style Chicken Sandwich. Finally, something we can all agree upon. The debut of a new McDonald's sandwich is a major cultural event that may someday achieve federal holiday status. This particular sandwich is especially laudable, bringing together as it does the North and South in an act of true American solidarity. Moreover, the Southern Style Chicken Sandwich will rock your socks off, regardless of your gender, race, class or political affiliation. Let me break it down for you: juicy-ass white meat chicken, topped with--oh yes--butter and pickles. That's right--butter and pickles. And as if that wasn't enough, Mickey's has also introduced the Southern Style Chicken Biscuit for those ambitious enough to be up and out of the house before 10:30a.m. Hallelujah.
Thank you, Mickey's. Thank you for doing your part to help right the ship in these trying times. Thank you for providing a beacon of light and a moment of respite, however fleeting, during these days of turmoil. Thanks for giving us kickass chicken sandwiches. With butter. And pickles.
The most fun I had with Army of Two was playing air guitar. No, this isn't the next Rock Band or Guitar Hero. It's a third-person shooter much like the 2006 Xbox 360 hit Gears of War. But whereas Gears of War pitted you against grotesque aliens, Army of Two strives for a more realistic experience--kind of. So a friend and I, playing on a split-screen, were leading our characters, a couple of beefy American mercenaries, through the caves of an Afghan mountain range shortly after 9/11. We were dispatching suicide bombers and other Al-Qaeda operatives with our AK-47s and hand grenades when there came a break in the action. We looked around. It seemed as though we'd slain all the terrorists in the vicinity. Before continuing on to the next arena, my friend positioned his soldier next to mine and hit the "A" button. They exchanged high fives. He pressed it again and they gave each other a pound. "Props all around," they said casually. When he pressed it a third time, I stared in disbelief as the two bloodied combatants went into full on Bill and Ted mode, headbanging, singing power chords, and yes, playing air guitar. In the middle of a cave. In Afghanistan. My friend and I shared a good laugh over this, and then we descended further into the dark cavern with the goals, I think, of destroying warheads and rescuing a POW, but mostly just looking to shoot as many bad guys as possible. Such is the way of Army of Two, a new game from Electronic Arts, which can be played solo, but is meant to be played with a friend online or using a split-screen. You control two soldiers of fortune working for a private military company called the Security and Strategy Corporation. The younger, prettier one is named Elliott Salem. He muses about the Wu-Tang Clan in the midst of combat, and says "bro" constantly. He is what we called in college a "douche bag" (nothing against Wu-Tang). His partner is Tyson Rios, older, grizzled and hard, though not above channeling Jack Black ala School of Rock after executing a few good kills.
Over the course of the game's six brief missions, which take you from China to Iraq ("Long live Saddam!" screams an insurgent with a Gatling gun), you uncover your employer's conspiracy to overtake the U.S. army as the country's primary military outfit. Although you play as guns for hire, it seems, at times, that there is supposed to be a message here about the risks of privatization of the military; the game even invokes President Eisenhower's 1961 farewell address warning "against the acquisition of unwarranted influence... by the military-industrial complex." However, the epilogue, in which Rios and Salem go on to found their own private military with the money of black market arms dealers, shows that Army of Two declines to advocate anything--except, perhaps, irresponsibility--in its approach to current events and the nation's military and political affairs.
I should, I suppose, be grateful not to be moralized to by a video game, especially one that allows you to "pimp" your firearms (I'm not gonna' lie, blinged-out assault rifles are kind of hilarious). Army of Two is supposed to be fun, and for the most part, it delivers in that regard. Playing by yourself (with a partner controlled by computer A.I.) doesn't make for a particularly memorable experience, but working with a friend can be a blast, as there is some strategy and teamwork required. The crux of the gameplay lies in the idea that if one player shoots a lot of bullets, he will draw the bulk of the hostile fire, rendering the other player less visible to the enemy and better able to flank and ambush them.
Comparisons to Gears of War are inevitable and Army of Two doesn't fare particularly well--it's gameplay isn't as tight and there's simply not as much action. When Gears of War 2 arrives this fall it should fairly blow this game away. Army of Two's short campaign mode and lack or replay value make it more of a rental, and actually, it's quite a good title to play with a buddy for just a few days. The most exciting moments come when one player is wounded and falls to the ground; the other player must then drag him behind cover and heal him. While the wounded player is being dragged, he can still shoot, and there's something incredibly satisfying about taking down an enemy who's about to shoot your "bro," while your "bro," in turn, is escorting you to safety. In the words of Tenacious D, that's fucking teamwork.
The rainfall was slow but consistent at Turner Field in Atlanta. I was in the top of the second inning of a scoreless tie between my Mets and the Atlanta Braves, with two outs and a runner on third, when something very strange happened: the umpire called for a rain delay. After I watched a brief cut sequence of the players milling around in the dugout, the umps called the game. And that was it. A loading screen appeared and I was back at the menu of Major League Baseball 2K8.
If this degree of "realism" sounds too, um, boring, you may be better off with the arcade-style action of The Bigs, released last summer. But if you're looking for a true baseball simulation, MLB 2K8 is the only game in town this year for the Xbox 360. And while it's a little rough around the edges--really, it's a little rough everywhere--MLB 2K8 delivers enough goods to satisfy those gamers craving some hardball.
MLB 2K8 benefits from great attention to detail. All 30 major league ballparks (and 20 minor league ones) have been recreated with the proper dimensions and some nice touches like the home run apple at Shea and the Green Monster at Fenway. Players' face animations range from decent to unrecognizable, but their motions have been captured more successfully: El Duque's high leg kick, for example, looks terrific.
Commentary from announcers Jon Miller and Joe Morgan also includes a few clever points. Start a game between the Yankees and Indians and they'll mention the midges that derailed Joba Chamberlain and co. in last year's ALDS. Soon enough, though, their chatter goes the way of typical sports video game commentary: I rocketed one over the left field wall and for some bizarre reason they started raving about an inside the park homerun. Those moments are awkward, but the big problem with the game's presentation is that it just doesn't run smoothly. I soon turned down the number of animations--of players walking to the batter's box, or instant replays--not because I was in a rush, but because they look choppy and load slowly. (I must add--and I admit, this sounds like an old lady complaint--that the text is outrageously small. MLB 2K8 continues this annoying trend, seen also in games like Call of Juarez and Mass Effect, which forces gamers to either play on massive HD screens or murder their eyeballs.)
The standard game modes and features--Home Run Derby, create a player, franchise mode--are all here, though there's little more. Personally, I don't need a lot of extras if the baseball is good enough, and here, again, MLB 2K8 is a mixed bag. The gameplay makes interesting and extensive use of the right analog stick. It's used to pitch, field and hit, and for the first two it works pretty well. Each pitch--fastball, slider, and so on--requires a distinct, three point motion of the stick; it's challenging, but quickly becomes intuitive. When fielding, just point the stick in the direction of the corresponding base; hold it down for the correct amount of time and your throw will be quick and on target. Hitting is simplest of all--pull back on the stick to step, push forward to swing--but each at bat feels like a total crap shoot. When you pop out (which is most of the time), it's frustrating as hell. When, on occasion, you get a double down the left field line, you just feel lucky. It doesn't help that the computer pitchers can nip the outside of the strike zone nearly every time.
It's unfortunate that 2K Sports decided not to make a 2008 version of The Bigs, as many gamers would likely prefer a faster paced, more action packed baseball title. Baseball isn't hockey or basketball, by which I mean it's slow. It takes nearly an hour to play through a game of MLB 2K8. It requires some patience. Even if you favor a more realistic sim (as I do), 2K8 may not be your best bet. MLB '08: The Show, from Sony, is an all around better game. The Show, however, is exclusive to the Playstation systems, and those who've invested in an Xbox 360 are left only with MLB 2K8. Things could be a lot worse. 2K Sports has already announced plans for a free, downloadable patch that will make the game run at a smoother frame rate (which basically says they rushed it to shelves). With or without the patch, though, 2K8 is a solid (if flawed) and even addictive game for a baseball fan. I won't be surprised if I'm still playing it come October.
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