Ratatouille

I finally went out and saw Ratatouille. As a food critic, I loved the character monsieur Ego. I can think of a few critics who fit his mold perfectly. And he is right, writing and reading pans are more fun than writing good reviews, although a steady diet of them causes depression, and the risk of losing sight of the joys of food. When I have received the most positive email, it has been for giving places a thorough drubbing.

Now, I disagree with the sort of sentiments that a critic's work is less worthy than the chefs. There are some chefs who will create good food no matter what the world says. And, if they happen to get some good reviews and publicity, they will thrive. But there are many chefs who will get lazy and cheap, and the role of the critic is to keep them on their toes. If a place is charging good money for an entree, then they had better earn it. If they know that their food might be served to a critic, they might think twice about cutting corners, and if they get caught cutting corners, a negative review might be the wakeup call they need.

It is a good film, and I recommend it to anyone who cares about the world of cuisine at all.

Paris Je T'aime

Tonight we saw Paris Je T'aime, which is a collection of about 18 short pieces, each by a different director, set in a different neighborhood of Paris. As one would expect it is a bit hit and miss, but the hits greatly outnumber the misses. It is a long film, and one could not help but think that if a couple of the turkeys were eliminated, it would have made a much better viewing experience, but each piece is so short that even the stinkers go by pretty fast.

I highly recommend this film, particularly if you have a love of Paris.

The Biggest Problem in our Society

I realized that the easiest way to describe the biggest problem facing us is this:

Most people, in fact the vast majority of them, cannot distinguish between "it is", "I think", and "I feel."

Speaking of which, I saw the movie Idiocracy tonight. It has its very crude moments, and there are a couple of problems with it in terms of some basic assumptions, but it is worth watching. One of the interesting things is that it gives a good visual or the notion of cultural capital, although for the population to get as stupid as depicted, the artifacts of a better age would have deteriorated much faster, and would not have been able to be maintained. Also, some of our dumber causes are not thought so by the creators of the film, so they are not shown. If I had made the film, there would be a strong sentimental/sappy side to the culture, and it would have had our current neo-puritanism/overindulgence syndrome magnified by a thousand. Unfortantely for Hollywood types, these things are not seen as stupid in their circles.

In spite of that, it is funny, in the Team America World's Police mode. In other words, crude to downright offensive, certainly not for children, yet outrageously funny and spot on in its parody of some of the worst traits of our culture.

Into the Great Silence

Go see Into the Great Silence when it comes to a theater near you. Around here it is only running for a week, which is probably about par for the course, so you may have to act fast. It is a gorgeous film, although the dialog is a little slow (ha ha ha, it is about life in a Carthusian monestary where the monks speak very little).

Excellent, fascinating, very beautiful film.

Not for those who think that story must dominate everything, and that a good film must be a two-act thriller working solely towards catharsis.

The Academy of Erik's Rants Awards

Unfortunately the Esteemed Academy only saw two or three new films in all of 2006, so the Awards Show has been cancelled. No actors, nor directors, nor dolly grips will go home with a little gold statue of Us this year.

Sorry.

Solveig Dommartin, RIP

One of those strange things: On January 20 of this year, while fiddling around looking for stuff on YouTube, I realized that Wings of Desire, my favorite film, is twenty years old. I wrote this piece, mainly because I was intrigued by the notion of making a stage play of that film.

Tonight I was looking for something else on the Internet Movie DataBase, and thought, "gee, I wonder if Solveig Dommartin has done anything recently."

When I clicked on her name I was shocked to see that she had died on January 17th of this year, only three days before I was thinking about Wings of Desire, which was as much about her as it was about Damiel (and was her first film appearance). She was only 45 and died of cardiac arrest.

Twenty Years Ago...

It is hard to believe that Himmel Uber Berlin, aka Wings of Desire is twenty years old (although by the time it got to Sacramento, I think it was 1988, so it was already a year old). It remains my all-time favorite film, mostly because it appeals to the lyrical/musical sense (images carefully moving in time) much more than the rhetorical sense (plot). What narratives there are twist together in beautifully subtle and interesting ways.

As far as angelology goes, there are a couple of questionable things, but in terms of a Catholic film, Wings of Desire takes first place, even though the director is not Catholic. Obviously there is the joy of the created world (even in Damiel's first human experience, which was getting clunked in the head with the armor), but more than that is the narrative around the old man (Homer), who is constantly searching for an epic of peace.

His search for an epic of peace against the history of warfare is something the angels contemplate, and is something that goes through the minds of the WWII survivors as they drive through areas that spark memories of the tragedy of that era. And we have to wait until the very end of the film to find the epic of peace, which is the story of procreation.

And, like the old cruise ship, getting there is half the fun in this mostly improvised masterpiece. We have Peter Falk playing himself, a couple of great performances by post-punk legend Nick Cave, some wonderfully off-kilter circus music, cinematography by Henri Alekan, and footage of a Berlin that is no more.

Now, keeping in mind that "getting there is half the fun," I am eagerly awaiting (and probably expecting disappointment from - how's that? To expect disappointment. What does that mean that I am expecting?) how this film works as a stage play. Curt Bois, who played Homer, is dead, the Berlin of the 1980's is gone (and that city really was a character in the drama), and they seem to be doing something different with it. They would have to. My question is how it will relate to the film. I am assuming that it will find its way to the Bay Area. I hope so, since I am currently boycotting both New York (Governor Spitzer?!? Ffft. Phteh. Blech.) and Massachussetts (yes, partly 1630's era grievances, but also to do with having a governor who actively practices the Mormon lifestyle), and will not see it in either of those states.

Anyway, here is an interesting PR piece from the theater company in Cambridge that is doing it, in conjunction with a Dutch company:

Apocalypto

Don't bother. I am beginning to think The Passion was a fluke.

Here we have (this would be a spoiler alert if the ending wasn't so obvious from the get-go) the energizer bunny hero dancing on the boundary between the improbable and the impossible, all the while remaining firmly in the predictable. Add some hokey synth "world" music and a good dose of Deus ex machina (OK, Mel, having that come with a friar bearing the Cross was cute) and you have it. Oh yeah, and gobs of blood.

Now, anything that shows how bloody and awful Mayan/Toltec/Aztec civilizations were is probably a good dose of reality in a culture that thinks that all Indians were nature-loving peacemongers whose world was cruelly destroyed by the mean Europeans. However, couldn't Gibson have come up with a better story?

In 1502 they must have already had the telegraph, because the ending was obvious from about the third scene.

Anyway, I am beginning to think that Mel has a fetish for blue paint (and, well, blood). Perhaps he should have just gone DADA and had Jaguar Paw deliver his fist-shaking manifesto in a Scottish brogue. At least it would have been funny. And we can all be thankful that the film did not come with a rant about the Jews starting all those wars (or the tagline: Mesoamerican Slaughter: the holocaust even Hutton doesn't deny).

On the good side of the ledger, it was visually appealing, even with the muppet Jaguar, and offered an interesting view of what a Mayan city looked like. Coming home, I pulled out a couple of Mexican history books, and it seems that the costumes were pretty accurate (I never realized that the ghetto-chic thing of putting jewels in the teeth had pre-Columbian antecedents, but I found two sources describing this, so I imagine that it is pretty accurate).

My rating is low: one star (better than Cats, but, hey, what isn't?). It seems, from reports from the girls, that Charlotte's Web is the better film. I am sure I will be seeing it on DVD when it comes out. I will not be seeing Mel's Turkey again.

Off to the Movies!

I am going to see Apocalypto this afternoon, so I will be able to give my report this evening. Or tomorrow. Did I mention how much I like vacation pace?

The girls went off to see Charlotte's Web, which, if it is good, I will end up seeing on DVD anyway, and only my Dad and I are interested in bloody films set in pre-Columbian Mexico.

Anyway, is it possible to improve on the cute cartoon version of Charlotte?

What next? Remaking Mary Poppins?

By the way, one of the best reasons to have a goose on Christmas, besides the fact that it tastes so good, is that you end up with large quantities of goose fat as well as large quantities of goose stock. Goose stock is one of those great staples that every house should have once in awhile. It makes the best risotto (and, when turned into a double stock with veal bones, will go into our New Years Eve dinner of French Onion Soup).

So, do yourself a favor and roast a Christmas goose. It would make a great centerpiece for an Epiphany dinner.

Also, on the topic of food: now's the time for roasted beets. They are easy to cook and very yummy, especially with chunks of warm goat cheese.

However, as much fun as it is to wax ecstatic over food, it is time to go indulge in Mel Gibson's strange vision.

Santa Stalin or Hitler Claus?

We finally saw Polar Express, which was, overall, an amusing experience. Peculiar animation, some rather goofy moments, a character playing a lute-backed hurdy-gurdy (wins big points from me for that), overall worth seeing once.

However, the images of Santaklausstadt in the North Pole were kind of creepy, as in Albert Speer-choreographed creepy. "Heil Santa!" He even appeared in a Leni Riefenstahlesque manner. I mentioned this last night to a friend who replied, "no, I think it is a more Stalinisitic Santa."

Either way, very creepy, and immediately gets my demented little brain working overtime, thinking up other twists on the already twisted commercialized world of Secularchristmas.

Perhaps in the Speer-designed world of the North Pole they gather around and sing "Adolf, the Blue-Eyed Reindeer." The movie is much like the classic Rudolph, except that in the end absolutely everyone dies, and takes three hours doing it with bizarre remote-key modulations built around the deceptive use of dominant seventh resolutions, and then the author comes out and talks about the culmination of art, music, religion and myth for another eight hours.

Now, the proof that Santa is a commie is well known (wears red, distributes toys evenly to all the children, something else. I can't remember exactly). But can you see him chortling "Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh!" Or "Mao-ey Christmas!"

No, this is not how the television show goes, but we all know, "the revolution will not be televised."

And whitey's on the moon.