Youth Without Youth: The Multifarious Psyche of Gus Van Sant and 'Paranoid Park'

by Sean Matthieu Weiner

Stutters suppress self-expression as time coasts like a thick chocolate shake in Gus Van Sant’s skater psycho-flick Paranoid Park (2007). Having unintentionally committed murder, Alex (newcomer Gabe Nevins) wanders his hometown of Portland in purgatorial guilt. With a nonlinear narrative winding onto itself and Alex’s apprehension inevitable, foreboding lingers constant. A shaken bottle of angst and phobia, our skateboard Raskolnikov sits quiet and blank as his insides screw and burst. His vacant gaze becomes the canvas of Van Sant’s latest work.

Recycling quietness from 2003’s Columbine allusion Elephant, Van Sant sets his sites on psychosis, again focusing into the teenage mind (a mélange of dirty angels and blasé devils).

The story, based on Blake Nelson’s youth novella, returns the director to Portland, a setting that has become a home to him and his work (Mala Noche, Drugstore Cowboy, My Own Private Idaho). Van Sant’s homecoming evokes the experimental craftiness that established him as an indie pin-up, a trait that for a long time eluded him.

Park’s cast of lanky pubescents meander through high school, skate parks, and empty nests voicing their roles but never their thoughts. Challenged with these familiar kinds of mutes, Van Sant joins forces with cinematographers Christopher Doyle, Rain Kathy Li and invaluable sound designer Leslie Schatz. Doyle and Li blend the misty saturation of 35 mm with the bumps and grains of Super 8 and video, compiling an array of aesthetics that are magically grounded by Schatz’s ear. The goal of this multimedia cocktail: to ensnare Alex’s scattered conscience.

Skate videos have been legitimized, having influenced the do-it-yourself genre that began somewhere around Jonas Mekas and devolved towards the Jackass movies. Doyle and Li tap into this subcult genre, using the soul mates (board and camera) to employ their archetypal tracking shot with characters on and off decks. Lengthy tracking shots with manipulated motion increase the paranoia of our pasty protagonist while negating the spectator’s expectation of any real destination.

Aurally, Park is Hitchcock when anxious and Sirk when histrionic. Schatz’s sundry score mutates Beethoven with break beats and twists Gershwin to atonal screams. And all the while the audio selections never last long enough to determine whether diegetic, nondiegetic, or simply mental.

The words of teens cannot do justice to their emotions so they are systematically subtracted. While Alex calls it quits with budding flame Jennifer (Gossip Girl’s Taylor Momsen) La Gradisca e Il Principe of Fellini’s Amarcord swells and we watch her bubbly air deflate to scorn. Nino Rota’s venerated score expresses rejection more successfully than Jennifer’s unbridled tirade of “likes” and “whatevers.”

The resulting is a bold creation comprised of elements from teenager outlets (skating, ipod playlists, experiential checklists). Made of the things that mattered in youth; being a part of something and pointedly apart from others. While the specs change depending on the environment, the adolescent quest remains for the same thing, identity. Borrowing images and sounds from the skater collective, Park’s makers dignify their subjects with an accurate and perceptive miscellany of their own ethnic mediums and movements.

This recycling of the real is also illustrated in the ensemble. Cast from an open call on Myspace, Gabe Nevins (Alex) and fellow cast members’ performances are so jerky they might as well be read off cards. Italian neorealism’s casting of nonactors determined whether unrecognizable faces could capture a greater realism. Would the removal of celebrity and utilization of inexperience achieve something new? The floppy-haired cast of Park looks the part, since they are the part. But, it is Van Sant’s use of their inexperience, their delivery of lines, for example, that enhances the narrative by infusing it with awkwardness.

Neither, Van Sant (55 year-old, gay Kentuckian), Doyle (Aussie Arthouse Imager), Li (24 year-old Chinese phenom), or Schatz (sound vet) are these ‘skate… drunks.’ The triumph of Park is in the reemployment of parts of this authenticated subculture. The look, the sound, the actual members are all soldered to the story (written by a native Portlander). Not neorealism but akin, by drawing on veritable facets of skate culture a net is cast loosely over the teen psyche.

Is the adolescent identity resolved? No more than the plot is. Adolescence is identity in motion, and so the spectator can only hope to catch a glimpse of the familiar disorder. Adult characters in Park are placed in blurry backgrounds as if blocked by Charles Schulz. When brought into focus, parents are revealed ironically with indecisions and fashionable jeans. And when we finally see Alex’s father his sleeves of tats distract us from his bumbling about his divorce. Forcing the question, “Do we ever get it?”

Paranoid Park encapsulates a community of irresolute disciples. It just so happens that they are skaters. It also just so happens they are teenagers. They could have just as easily been any of us.

Dozing at the Movies: A Review of 10,000 B.C.

by Brett Parker

I yawned a lot during 10, 000 B.C. This is curious, considering the movie contains an interesting premise, fun special effects, competent leads, a really cool villain, and an action-packed third act. You can always depend on caveman flicks to serve up cheesy fun, but director Roland Emmerich takes the production way too seriously and it becomes surprisingly hard to engage. If the film does one thing very strongly, it makes you pine for Raquel Welch when she donned cavewoman garbs in One Million Years B.C.

The film follows the adventures of a caveman tribe circa (you guessed it) 10,000 B.C. Their days consist of tribal rituals, hunting woolly mammoths, and speaking perfect English. The film focuses on D’Leh (Steven Strait), a tribal warrior whose heart belongs to the gorgeous Evolet (Camilla Belle). One day, tragedy strikes when a sinister tribe led by an evil Warlord (Affif Ben Badra) ravages D’Leh’s village and takes Evolet hostage. The Warlord is snatching up tribes to build a community of slaves that will build the pyramids. Desperate to rescue Evolet, D’Leh assembles an army of several tribes to take down the evil Warlord and his forces. This all leads to a climactic showdown of slaves versus masters on the grand Pyramids set piece.

The effects here mainly consist of CGI creatures (mammoths, saber-toothed tigers) that look no more real than Shrek, yet have a fun quality about them that makes it all tolerable. I especially liked a set of giant birds that gobble cavemen in a giant green jungle. As for the dreamy cavewoman formula, Camilla Belle doesn’t exactly fit the bill. Don’t get me wrong, Belle is a drop-dead gorgeous actress, yet her character is grossly underwritten and lacks the carnal quality we’d expect from a role like this. More material (and better costumes) should’ve been nurtured for her character.

Steven Strait’s D’Leh also suffers from the same faults. Strait seems like a durable leading man and will probably do well for himself as a future matinee idol, yet his character has no real dimensions or personality. We care very little about him and care even less about his quest for Evolet. Both Strait and Belle are attractive and likeable and will hopefully get better material in better movies. The one performance I did really enjoy was that of the evil Warlord. Badra looks like Ben Kingsley on steroids and his foreign caveman tongue makes him sound like the Persian Warlord from 300 with a really bad cold. He’s a uniquely evil presence that’s like an exotic color against a drab background.

Roland Emmerich is a director who tackles popcorn movie ventures with slick and elaborate production values. I think his problem is that he takes concepts at a serious face value and never adds any significant depth or humor to them. This straight-on approach brought a compelling urgency to Stargate and Independence Day yet brought a frustrating dullness to Godzilla and The Day After Tomorrow. Adventure movies work best when there’s a colorful spirit driving them along. Wolfgang Peterson’s Poseidon may have been an expensive special effects show, but it’s the fact that the characters were more colorful than Crayola that made the movie watchable.

10, 000 B.C. has drawn numerous comparisons to Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto and the two films indeed have a lot in common. Both films follow an ancient and primitive tribe as they try to fight off the evil forces of an advanced civilization. Apocalypto demonstrates everything that’s wrong with 10, 000 B.C. and proves that Emmerich lacks the passion and risk apparent in Gibson’s direction. Gibson brought a stronger sense of adventure, danger, and humor to his film and even expressed deeper themes hidden within the material. Apocalypto is an intelligent allegory on primal violence and cultural conflicts while 10, 000 B.C. never rises above being a routine genre exercise. Emmerich’s film also reminded me of 300 in its depiction of a small band of warriors who take on an imperial army. I used to have my reservations about the cartoonish and macho world 300 created, but after 10, 000 B.C., I’ll never complain about the former again. For those that hate on the Spartan epic, I ask you to endure 10, 000 B.C. and tell me 300 doesn’t feel like Lawrence of Arabia afterwards.

I’m sure there will be plenty of moviegoers who are curious to see this film based on its premise and its blockbuster potential, but I warn you: it will bore you and have you thinking about better films the entire time. This made me realize that it’s better to have an adventure epic be too silly than too serious. It will also make you more appreciative of cinematic adventures that do work and are exciting. I guess we really did need another Indiana Jones after all!

A Fabulous Flop: The Other Boleyn Girl

by Brett Parker

Atonement is a period piece I praised for disregarding its genre conventions and surrounding itself in its sensuality and emotions. The Other Boleyn Girl works in the complete opposite way. Here is a stiff and flat period drama where the filmmakers are oblivious to the underlying cinematic potential lurking beneath the film. Indeed, a story about Henry VIII should hold some interest, considering his rich historical significance. Yet alas, first-time-feature director Justin Chadwick has drained all the excitement from this historical tale and you may find yourself, as I was, bored to tears.

The film follows the story of the beautiful Boleyn sisters, Anne (Natalie Portman) and Mary (Scarlett Johansson). When King Henry VIII (Eric Bana) discovers that his wife Katherine (Ana Torrent) is unable to provide him with a proper heir, Sir Thomas Boleyn (Mark Rylance) seizes the opportunity to offer Anne up for royal childbearing. Pressured by her family’s obsession with royal status, Anne unwillingly goes along with the plan and allows herself to be impregnated by Henry. She indeed bears him a son until she discovers that Mary has begun a plot to seduce Henry away from both his wife and Mary. Intrigued by the opportunity to become Henry’s Queen, Mary has no trouble betraying her sister and seeing her banished outside of the kingdom. The plot thickens as Henry breaks away from the Catholic Church and Mary realizes she may not be able to provide Henry with the heir he wants.

Most people go to see movies like this for one of two reasons: (1) they are intrigued by the royal court plots that come with period dramas, or (2) they like to see attractive movie stars do naughty things against a historical backdrop. What is so disappointing about The Other Boleyn Girl is that it fails to entertain on both accounts. As a serious drama, it’s too cold and unfocused to be on the same level as, say, Elizabeth. For all the betrayals, heartbreak, politics, and beheadings that are experienced, the film feels surprisingly lifeless. There’s not even camp fun to be had here. The same goes for the sensual aspects. I think the film could’ve benefited if it turned up the erotic heat the way Atonement did. After all, we’re talking about Scarlett Johansson, Natalie Portman, and making babies here. Yet the film hurries past its sex scenes and never pauses to reflect on any sexual feelings.


There are some period pieces, like Amadeus and Marie Antoinette, which make living in the past look like a lot of fun, while others make it seem like it royally sucked. The Other Boleyn Girl falls under the ladder. With most films in this genre, we can usually depend on the technical aspects (cinematography, production design, costume design, etc.) to be top notch. Here, they all prove to be unremarkable and do nothing to pull the film out of its drab atmosphere. Missing are the sights and colors that make even the simplest tales seem sublime.

If one thing does work in the film, it’s the performances. Eric Bana possesses the right intensity and physical prowess to embody Henry, Scarlett Johansson proves very skilled at portraying her character’s vulnerability, and I was impressed with the impressions Jim Sturgess and David Morrissey made in their supporting roles. The real news here is Natalie Portman’s performance. If she’s proven to be wooden in other roles, she lets the inner-vixen out here and possesses a post-feminist presence that gives the film a dose of energy it desperately needs. The most interesting sections of the film are when she stirs things up by messing with both Mary and Henry’s heads. Too bad she isn’t enough to save the film.

That’s not to say this material is completely without interest. I can see the drama in it. It’s interesting how a family would pimp out their daughters in the name of royal advancement. It’s amusing how Henry VIII basically broke away from the Catholic Church in pursuit of a booty call. Plus the film’s concept kind of reminded me of The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford in the way it portrays two siblings living in fear of a mythic figure. Could this material have been saved? Absolutely. I think Adrian Lyne would’ve been a great director for this material, for his work wonderfully balances the erotic and the tragic. Perhaps this film could’ve taken a cue from Milos Forman’s Valmont and allow humor into an entangled period situation. Oh and here’s an idea: an interview with Robert Zemeckis on the Beowulf DVD reveals that Ray Winstone has played Henry VIII on stage before. As competent as Bana is in the role, I would’ve loved to see Winstone as Henry. Seeing him mess around with Portman and Johansson would surely be a sight to see.

I realize I’m spinning off into wild thinking tangents here, but you will find yourself doing the same thing during The Other Boleyn Girl. I’m willing to bet you’ll be thinking about anything else than the action on screen in front of you. While most boyfriends will fall asleep on their girlfriends in films like this, the sad thing this time is that the girlfriends might fall asleep themselves.

Lost in Translation: Wong Kar Wai's 'My Blueberry Nights'

by Sean Matthieu Weiner

Saturated zooms on cream careening through the violet innards of pie-a-la-mode resonate in Wong Kar Wai’s venture West, My Blueberry Nights (2008). Resonating alongside are the quirks, scrapes, and ditties usually ringing through Wong’s narratives. Unfortunately though, Wong’s Americana holiday emerges a bit touristy. Signature characters of past films turn stereotypical when reborn Yankee. And as subtitles are removed from the WKW experience dialogue falters, posing a debasing question, “Were the subtitles a fundamental part of the magic?”

My Blueberry Nights follows meek, blue Elizabeth (crooner Norah Jones) on her voyage from New York City to New York City. Stopping off for vignettes in day-tripper renderings of Memphis and Nevada on her way from start to start. As always with WKW heroines, Elizabeth is ejected from her routine when her relationship crumbles. Taking refuge in the former couple's hip diner, she meets Brit, expat Jeremy (an overactive Jude Law) whose dim opinion of love’s outcomes are conflicted by his confectionary romanticism.

While floating the baked good before her, Jeremy recounts how every night while closing he dumps an untouched blueberry pie. Pastry is personified. In support of deserted desserts Elizabeth begins coming in nightly for a nocturnal nosh. Jeremy falls for her as she dozes on his stained carved countertop. Leaning in, he kisses away the cream spattered upon her lips. Elizabeth departs at daybreak unknowing of his slumberland advances. And so, she commences her road trip and Wong commences his road movie.

Customarily, Wong’s ninth full-length feature references his previous, particularly this time, 1996’s cult romance Chungking Express. The relinquished keys of broken lovers still wait to be claimed at local eateries. Lovely, lonely damsels once again misshape their doos while snoozing on tabletops. And, perhaps the paramount WKW recurrence, tunes continue to echo through their storyline as time-diluting sets of leitmotifs; this time most notably is Cat Power’s recent title track The Greatest.

Norah Jones is not Faye Wong (the dream girl of Chungking). Wong’s second go at transforming pop star to film star falls short. Jones’s lackluster Elizabeth reads like a half-cooked actress’s big break. When placed before a booze-stunk David Straithairn or a high rollin’ Natalie Portman, Jones is simply eaten up. True, she is the blueberry pie within the narrative, but alas her performance comes across a shade blue as well.

Don’t fault Norah, she never claimed to be this brand of performer, she only allowed herself to be part of Wong’s experiment. Also experimented with is similarly airy pianist Cat Power, who plays opposite Law as a former flame. Power’s entrancing moment floats in and out of this film with a gust of the mysterious found in Wong’s finest scenes. Curiosity lingers with Cat Power’s Katya in a way that it does not with the rest. Is it this curiosity that is missing everywhere else in Blueberry? Has Wong spelled out his main players a bit too much?

Maybe Faye Wong was not Faye Wong. Without justifying xenophobes, subtitled films are different from vernacular ones since they force the spectator to read. The act of reading (working) can make audiences feel more involved with a film, but it certainly distances them as well. Subtitles are undeniably an obstacle. Translation removes eloquence and nuance from an original script, focusing exclusively on just giving the gist. The resulting boiled-down text seeks to keep the audience on pace while alleviating as much work as possible. And so, films usually suffer in translation. However, the films of Wong Kar Wai seem to be an exception.

Wong’s characters are often muted, and when they do speak, dialogue reads like simple poetry across the bottom of the screen. There is a difference between reading poetry and hearing it spoken. Unfortunately verbalizing can sometimes (often) be deprecating to the piece. Such is the result in My Blueberry Nights. You know how people always say the book was better than the movie? Well, WKW in the local vernacular kind of factors into that saying as well.

Reading the dialogue while soaking up his lush imagery and simultaneously feeling his obsessively compiled mix-tape of a score-- that is the WKW experience. That is how his Western audiences have always received and cherished his work. My Blueberry Nights is Wong inviting Westerners to taste his work in a more familiar language.

The result is rich with fluffy blurs of vivid colors in a shallow focus. The dreamy aesthetics of this film are without a doubt stunning. Nevertheless, even with such top-notch presentation, the substance of My Blueberry Nights comes across bubbly and flat. It needs a little something.

And so, I’ve tried it, and I think I’ll have the usual, please.

My Blueberry Nights starts off with a limited release on April 4th.

'Semi-Pro' Another Run Through the Ferrell Movie Mill

by Brett Parker

According to Wikipedia there was a basketball league called the American Basketball Association (ABA) that once competed with the NBA “until reaching an agreement of merger in 1976.” The ABA was said to have “pioneered the now-popular slam dunk contest” as well as displaying “a more wide-open, flashy style of offensive play.” It was ultimately “the lack of a national television contract and protracted financial losses” that caused the ABA to succumb to the NBA market. Only four ABA teams (New York Nets, Denver Nuggets, Indiana Pacers, and San Antonio Spurs) survived the merger to live on in the NBA.

From this information alone, it sounds to me like the ABA could make for an interesting movie. The fact that this story is used at the basis for a Will Ferrell comedy I find to be downright hilarious. Seriously, the first time I read the plot synopsis for Semi-Pro, I laughed out loud. Having Ferrell play an ABA coach resorting to wacky ways to save his team from foreclosure is such a random and peculiar comic concept that it almost borders on brilliant.

It’s too bad the filmmakers didn’t realize how fully rich this concept is. Semi-Pro is yet another Will Ferrell vehicle that plays more like episodes of his wacky humor than an actual film. “Compelling idiocy” I think is the term to best describe Ferrell’s zany shtick. While Ferrell’s films don’t exactly have me rolling in the aisles, they’re still likeable movies that make me smile. Semi-Pro is no exception, but the movie truly had potential to be something exceptional.

Ferrell stars as Jackie Moon, who begins the film as the writer and performer of a disco funk jam called “Love Me Sexy.” The single goes gold and provides Moon with the money to buy a (fictional) ABA franchise in Flint, Michigan called the Flint Tropics. Now the owner, Moon appoints himself as the coach and captain of the team. To call the franchise ragtag would be an understatement. The Tropics are a skid row business with hardly any fans in the stands and nowhere near as prosperous as other ABA teams. Moon’s wacky attempts at promotions (a free corn dog night, a wrestling match with a bear) and star player Clarence Black (Andre Benjamin) provide the only distinguishable traits the Tropics have outside of other league teams.

Halfway through the season, the ABA Commissioner announces to the team owners the merging of the ABA with the NBA and the fact that only four teams will be transferred over between the leagues. It is decided upon that the four surviving teams will be the ones with the best records and the best attendance numbers by the end of the season. This causes Moon to motivate his team towards actually winning games as well as pumping up the excessiveness of his wild promotions. With the help of a new player (Woody Harrelson) and Black’s talent, Moon makes a mad dash to keep his fading franchise alive.

If you’ve ever seen a Will Ferrell movie before, you know the drill. His movies present silly concepts that serve as a springboard to let Ferrell’s crazed man-child run amuck. Ferrell’s brand of humor may not be the funniest, but it certainly can never be accused of being boring or flat. It’s hard not to be in awe of how Ferrell’s humor thrashes between the random and the insane. The plot usually doesn’t matter in these comedies; Ferrell’s humor usually proves to be competent bread and butter. The problem this time is that the film’s ideas prove to be more interesting than the humor we’re presented with.

The film’s biggest weakness is that it constantly reminds us of earlier, better comedies. Once we compare those films with Semi-Pro, we realize the gravity of its lost potential and how much funnier it could’ve been. The film’s concept reminds us of Slap Shot, George Roy Hill’s vulgar masterpiece also about a 70s sports team that resorts to manic methods to save its franchise. Slap Shot was great in the way it realized its ideas and humor with a comedic intelligence and a take-no-prisoners attitude. There’s no way Ferrell’s humor alone can match the chaotic hilarity of Hill’s film. The presence of Wood Harrelson as a basketball player reminds us of White Men Can’t Jump, the funniest basketball film ever made. If one were to recall the colorful and observant profanity of that film’s dialogue, they would realize that Semi-Pro wastes a perfectly good R-rating. Sure, a few f-bombs are dropped here and there, but if the dialogue pushed the envelope the way White Men Can’t Jump did, the film would have a hilarious authenticity about it. The film’s love for 70’s nostalgia also reminds us of Roll Bounce, the disco roller skating comedy. That film had a better sense of retro energy and musical selection to help highlight the era.

As it is, Semi-Pro is still a durable entertainment that will surely please Will Ferrell’s fan base. Despite its comedic shortcomings, there are still sections that are very funny. As I look back at sports movies of recent memory (Pride, Glory Road, Gridiron Gang, to name a few), it appears they strictly follow age-old dramatic formulas with very little freshness. In a time when these movies have grown so dependent on clichés, it’s kind of refreshing to have a film point and laugh at those very clichés.

It all basically comes down to this: you either find Will Ferrell funny or you don’t. If Ferrell’s comedy completely turns you off, you’re going to find yourself pretty bored at Semi-Pro. If you can quote Old School to perfection and even consider Kicking & Screaming an underrated gem, you’ll find this comedy pretty enjoyable. It’s doesn’t come close to touching Anchorman, but I honestly enjoyed it more than Talladega Nights, probably because I find the ABA a funnier target than NASCAR. Now, if only the filmmakers had felt the same way!