One-Shot (15/01/10)

Is the absence of the Watchmen: Two Disc Director's Cut on DVD a blatant ploy to garner further Blu-ray support and sales or just an anomaly? I know no-one's going to answer this, but that's a question I've wondered about. Fortunately, it doesn't affect me negatively - Malin Akerman deserves to be seen in 1080p - but I don't like to see genre fans missing out.

One-Shot (07/09/09)

Every director is visionary. They might not have good visions for their films, but, by their very nature, they are visionary, in as much as they bring their ideas (or "vision") to bear on a film. Ergo, preceding your largely anonymous director's name with this word is not only audacious and laughable, but also wholly irrelevant. If you helped market the movie 9 and don't feel addressed right now, you should.*

* If you remember me making a similar complaint about Watchmen's marketing, congratulations, you are the readerly equivalent of a Final Girl.

21 - Review: Watchmen

Rejoice, non-existent reader. Here's a break from the shame and political apathy that has beshitted this blog since Sunday. I won't demean us both by including a redundant plot description. That task has harmed keyboards the world over quite enough. What follows is more.... Ian. If you want pseudo-film school bullshit, go read the average movie site's forum. Oh yeah, and there are spoilers.

* * *

The Dark Knight is more divisive than Marmite and anal sex combined. Bat-fans have wasted no time inaugurating it into the modern classic pantheon. To them, it's a masterpiece. To others, it's a fine if over-rated crime picture. Like an internet argument, no understanding has been reached. However, in Watchmen, the opposition have their Chewbacca defense. It and T.D.K. both recast familiar stories in genre garb. Both succeed, but only the former deserves Godfather level acclaim.

The complexity and ambition of Watchmen is dazzling. In 2009, uninitiated teens lured in by the promise of fetish gear and ultraviolence are in for a mindfuck of 2001 proportions. Plenty of reviews have been written for fans of the source material. Thousands of words contextualize director Zack Snyder's achievement in the wake of the projects troubled history. Their rightful place is in the pub. Such matters have little bearing on the actual quality or otherwise of this adaptation.

Watching Watchmen feels like talking to a loudmouth. If you don't adjust yourself, communication breaks down. The first act doesn't help. If not slow, it's confidently paced. There are introductions and reminiscences where biffpowzap action is to be expected. Snyder and writers David Hayter & Alex Tse hue closely to the G.N. This will dictate whether you get comfy or throw the head up and leave. Yes, what's been on the page for decades and what's on film now are very different. Nonetheless, there's little chance that anyone unimpressed by the comic will enjoy this.

The greatest strength of the film is that it is faithful to but not imprisoned by its roots. Despite its length, the narrative rarely sags. Frequent chatting never derails the forward momentum and intrigue. The sense of creeping dread so prominent in the comic is missing. Dr Strangelove style Nixon moments can't compensate for the raw power of blood dripping down a doomsday clock face. Although this and similar elements are translated in other ways, they are problems only to fans and don't hurt the movie. It works fine, as it is. But it also could have been so much better. A consummate understanding of the themes at work make the many dialogue-driven scenes just as engaging as the action based set-pieces. And when the kiddiewinks are (still) laughing at the blue knob, a moral-panic or two will have more than a few nerves wracked.

Anyone dreading a speed-ramp gougefest can uncover their eyes. With the alley/prison battles, Snyder's hand is subtler and more accomplished than ever. It's as stylized as 300, but restrained. The much lauded title sequence is sublime, a perfect blend of exposition and flair yet less arch than a walk-and-talk. Time and place is cock-solid throughout; at times, the music is a little overbearing but its as undeserving of titters as Dr Manhattan's blue langer* or Rorschach's stunningly prejudicial kills. If you're gonna play in the 20th century pop-culture ballpark, why not fill your boots?

The principals are uniformly excellent. As Rorschach and Dr. Manhattan respectively, Jackie Earle Hayley and Billy Crudup demand the loudest applause. Collectively, they take intimidatingly revered roles and make them look easy. Hayley's Rorschach, like Alan Moore's original icon, is a battering ram. He's Wayne Rooney in a trilby and inkblot mask. His speech and actions are clipped. Whether dousing a prisoner to death with boiling chip fat or snarling at the moral vacuum around him, he is sheer economy. Conversely, Crudup handles Manhattan's obtuse ruminations comfortably. He's possibly even more chilling than Rorschach; he doesn't just dispatch people, he destroys them. No hang-up, no second-thought. Both actors also deserve extra credit for their portrayals of the men behind their alter-egos.

Perhaps the greatest triumph, though, is a less glamorous role. As Dan Dreiberg a.k.a. Nite Owl II, Patrick Wilson distinguishes himself as a character actor par excellence. His work here completes a hat-trick of outstanding performances he started in Hard Candy and continued in Little Children. Wilson is the Michael Carrick** of the piece. While his cohorts draw oohs and ahhs, he lends the ensemble a crucially important bridge between the fantastic and the everyday. He's the most accessible figure for Joe Soap, but far from one himself. His cold feet in the face of the law and his own desires is that of a man who fears falling off a horse after years out of the saddle. In overcoming this hurdle, he provides the closest thing the movie offers to a fist-punching moment (though the flame-thrower orgasm was a bit much.) We laugh and cry with him in a way we never do with the others. Having someone do this heavy lifting buys enough goodwill for the daring, unfashionable work going on elsewhere.

I could go on. Hundreds of aborted words yearn to extol the wonders of Jeffrey Dean Morgan's Comedian (movie bastard of the year) and the underrated Malin Ackerman bringing an extra dimension to Laurie, for example. There are also countless grace notes that work without prior knowledge but are sure to get geeks hotter than Carla Gugino. With so much to commend, there are still nits, and this is the time when review law decrees I should pick them. The running time isn't a "problem" on its own steam. It's an inevitability with so much of the book translated to the screen. However, that and the diminished Armageddon threat mentioned above consistently hinder urgency. This will doubtless annoy fans less than the uninitiated but it remains undeniable.

While most of the Antarctic climax is excellent, the destruction of New York is inferior to the original. This Akira style wipeout feels like watching an ITV cut of Pulp Fiction. Jules without "motherfucker" in his arsenal is about as potent as a blue cock without a corresponding scrote-sack.*** That said, Zack Snyder has achieved what many misguided and unambitious people once deemed impossible: he made Watchmen. Better still, he did it with aplomb. It's everything an adaptation should be - faithful yet engaging and fresh.


* Problem with the phallic imagery? Tough.
** Problem with the United analogies? Tougher.
*** See *.

Watch it: now.
Don't watch it: to get a First in Denying Yourself Life's Pleasures 101.
Ranking: 8.5 (Colonel)

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Ian Pratt got hungry waiting. Helped himself to some beans. Hope you don't mind.

One-Shot (08/03/09)

Last night, I stuck two fingers up to my cold by going to see Watchmen with Neil. Under normal circumstances, this post would've been a straightforward gush over the movie, why the wait was worth it, and how me not getting to play Rorschach was, ultimately, for the best. At the very least, it would've been a big thank you to everyone who voted yes in the Sexiest poll. Then I got home and heard the news. I spent a large portion of Friday evening discussing the finer points of "The Irish Question" with Christophe, so the timing couldn't have been worse. A decade with some good work undone in an instant, the cautious optimism held until moments before extinguished, one man's desire to leave his homeland strengthened.

Before Watchmen, we got the trailer for Fifty Dead Men Walking. If you haven't read this, the flick is the biopic of Martin McGartland, an IRA operative turned British informant. Me and Neil made the inevitable jokes about the movie. It was an easy target. The use of 'Alternative Ulster', the bit where the cop said "Where are yiz goin lads?", the treatment of our blood-soaked past as the backdrop for a "pulse-pounding thriller" or whatever the blurbs said. The ability to laugh through despair comes pretty easy to us here.

Time was, yesterday's tragedy would've been behind me pretty quickly. That's what years of unfortunate practice yields. The wound still feels too raw to see things clearly, but I'm less sure, this time. I keep thinking about it, feeling sorry for the families, wishing for the embarrassment and heartache to end. Moreover, I get the impression this level of apathy might extend beyond my door.

I know I go on a bit about home - sometimes with tongue firmly in cheek - but that's what patriots do. I make no apologies for that. One line from last night stands out more than anything regarding the events at Massereene; "An attack on one is an attack on all of us." Some of us would do well to keep that in mind.

One-Shot (07/03/09): Belfast Picture Tour, Part 3

Staying on the Dublin Road, I give you the Movie House. As the picture indicates, that is literally it's name. That's not why it's my default cinema, though (proximity to Auntie Annie's is, naturally, a benefit.) Why then is such an unremarkable cinema my first choice? The answer is twofold:

1. It carries many memories of a better time.
2. It isn't Yorkgate.

Yorkgate (or City Side as it's recently been re-branded) is a hole. It's clientele are predominantly wreckage of human condition. After the incessant laughter of a group of giggling teens ruined The Mist, I vowed never again to tred its sticky floors. Giggling teens are one thing when they're laughing at the destruction of their own in a horror flick, and quite another when they're the shell-suit shysters indiginous to North Belfast, wholly incapable of understanding Darabontian excellence. The newly arrived Odeon is impressive but steep. Unless the movie in question demands particularly technocratic treatment, I'm willing to pump yet more credits into the Movie House's coffers.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna check out tonight's Watchmen availability at the Odeon. No Watchmen for sick Ian? Cold, I laugh at thee.