Best and Worst Films of 2007

Good year for film if you ask me. Once you navigate through the fetid pile of horse shit that represents the decline of intelligent film viewing, that is. The great and the wretched...in order.

1)No Country For Old Men: The Cohen brothers' stark landscapes, minimal dialog, and unflinching moral questions paint Cormac McCarthy's Texan novel onto the screen with care. Horrifying at times, but not gratuitous. And no wasted "filler" scenes. Raises interesting questions of fate and consequence, without spoon-feeding the audience with some bumper sticker explanation. And the ending, my God the ending. Flawless. Number one for me this year.

2) Eastern Promises: After the fatally flawed A History of Violence, Cronenberg redeems himself with this gutter ballet. The violence is not the focal point, even though it is a touch overly choreographed. A great cast of characters, all with their own story. And Viggo is pure menace.

3) Michael Clayton: The opening rant by Tom Wilkinson is worth the entire price of admission. The story has been told before, but never in a manner as fierce as this. Outstanding acting by all involved, but never over the top, and thankfully void of melodrama.

4) Sicko: You don't have to agree with everything Michael Moore says to appreciate his championing of the underdog. Sure, some of his scenes are staged, but he brings to light the everyday social injustices that most people either completely ignore or justify with a pathetic rationale of "every man for himself". This is by far Moore's most focused film and hopefully some of the stories will affect even the staunchest of capitalist hearts.

5) Zodiac: David Fincher's directorial abilities have improved greatly. This story is so well-crafted, the tension being built from organic character responses to circumstances. And character is what this film is really about, the flaws, the obsessions. I was surprised this movie didn't stay in the theaters very long. Truly worth watching.

6) Waitress: Lovely, small budget film. Loved the idea of using various pie recipes as metaphor for the protagonist's life. Keri Russel is outstanding. The film manages to avoid so many of the potential cliché disasters that go along with these kinds of stories. Clever, human, funny, and genuine.

Wretched viewing:
1) 300: Absolute garbage. Made in 2006, but not released until 2007, this film is nothing more than an example of marketing. Tedious, witless, and insulting. The only value this film could have would be as an academic exercise in dissecting homo-erotic subtext. Horrible dialog. How many times do men in leather speedos have to bellow out where they're from? I left with ten minutes remaining, wishing I had stayed home and read a good book.

2) Smokin' Aces: Another film made in '06 but released in '07. Scattered story line, flat characters, and Jeremy Piven typecasted as an annoying, self-righteous degenerate. Not even worth elaborating further.

3) 28 Weeks Later: A perfect example of studios capitalizing on a great film by making a stagnant and sub par sequal. Whereas the original (28 Days Later) created a post-apocalyptic environment that lulled the viewer into a false sense of security, this film replaces most of the suspense with gore, and the ever-present, ever-nauseating "America saves the day" rhetoric. The few genuine frights that did occur were hardly worth sitting through the film for.

4) Music and Lyrics: I'm usually a sucker for Hugh Grant comedies. Not sure why. This film is wretched, though. Probably has something to do with Drew Barrymore being in it. All the humor is flat (pun intended) and overused. Dull.

5) Oceans Thirteen: What a strange film. It banks on the reputation of the characters from the previous two. Funny banter is only hinted at, replaced instead with celebrity closeups and the constant suggestion that something really good may happen at some point. It never does. Over the top plot with holes a mile wide.

Those I Regrettably Haven't Been Able to See Yet:
1)There Will Be Blood:>Lord knows this would be at the top of my list, but I can't rightly put it there until I've viewed it. Stupid local theaters.

2) Into The Wild: I have not seen a poor directorial effort by Sean Penn yet. And this looks to be even better than his other works. Eddie Vedder's soundtrack is outstanding as well.

3) Before The Devil Knows You're Dead: Great director with what looks to be a grand achievement. Mind you, Ethan Hawke does not quite do it for me.

4) Juno: One look at any trailer and you know this film will be spectacular. Sharp vernacular and affectionate, effective characters. I'm pissed I haven't seen it yet.

Remembrance Day

I don't usually post my own writing. Seems pretentious to do so. Perhaps today I am pretentious --I'm sure some of you think I am most days.

This is an excerpt of a piece The Sky is Falling, based on some past Remembrance Day ceremonies I've been to. In particular, the image of a frail, older veteran standing in the rain while the ceremony unfolds around him.


The Sky is Falling
by: Harry Tournemille
Nov. 11/ 2007


The body is old. Hunched shoulders drawn down in the rain. They'd be arched in the sunlight too, the graveness of gravity. At one time they were straight. Broad, strong anchors for the torso. But the body ages and is now old. The awareness of age does not help. In the rain, the man is rooted to the ground. A feeble apple tree, split and worried with years. His brow a permanent furrow, the earth of his face turned over with age. And wisdom. His jacket is buttoned, hat perched on the side of his head. Medals weigh down his breast. They hang from curled ribbons that mock the man's shape. He dislikes them, their gaudy brassiness. They do not remind him of another time, of smoke and fire and confusion. Their memory is born of fabrication, the allusion to a time that did not exist in the temporal. They remind him of nothing at all. On any other day he keeps them in a small, pine box at the back of his sock drawer. Today they weigh him down, pull his heart to the saturated earth. The place where they belong, where he belongs one day. The body is old. But not dead yet.

Atten-hut!

He snaps to attention. Autopilot. Chest out, chin down, eyes fierce for a moment before they retreat into thought. He feels the host of bodies around him dance the same. Unison, the great deceptive cadence.

Right Face!

The man pivots, graceful. His foot claps the asphalt, joining the percussion of all the others. A person he does not know stands next to him. Her dark rimmed glasses appear to squeeze her eyes closer together than what is natural. But the beauty of her youth is not lost on the man, her pixie mouth and high cheeks. She leans towards him and whispers.

They really should have those new fandangled gadgets for us to ride on.

How's that?

Seg-ways they're called. Two wheels and we could still turn to attention. My grandson has one.

It requires an inhuman amount of effort to suppress a smirk. And he after all is human. He shakes his head at her and she winks.

Well, I'd like one at least. I'm no spring chicken, y'know --but I used to be.

For-ward...March!

In unison they move, tired limbs swing, feet rise and fall. Less smooth than the last time. But no one notices. As the man marches he clenches and unclenches his left hand. He tries to relax his shoulders. The cenotaph at City Hall is only two blocks away and he wonders if he'll make it. Will his body fail in this postured line of duty?

He tells himself this is it. No more marching. Been saying that for years now. By Christ his hip hurts. Out of the corner of his eye he notices a homeless woman pushes a shopping cart, her mouth moving in phantom conversation. She stops as the veterans pass, raises a half-empty bottle of rice wine in salute. Her mouth pulls apart in unpracticed smile, exposes fragments of what few teeth she has left. Missing teeth. Who was it that lost his teeth that night? Louis? No --he was alright. Stoned out of his mind but alright. Louis Sutton had a nickname for everyone; called the man Frankie-boy. The marching has stopped. Stand at ease. The charcoal cenotaph points to the grey sky. A concrete, admonishing finger that God misinterprets. The ceremony begins. As a voice comes over the sound system, the man's thoughts drift back sixty odd years, to a beach in France at night...

Great Canadian Music

A brief discussion in my Film and Lit class prompted me to write a post. One of the books and films we've been studying has been Atom Egoyan's The Sweet Hereafter. The overwhelming consensus was that both the book and the film are absolute masterpieces, brilliant gems in a landscape of dust and rock. But one comment in particular got me to thinking. An intelligent young woman, savvy and knowledgeable commented that this is the first time she's ever experienced something Canadian and enjoyed it. In fact she professed a dislike for all Canadian television, film, and music. Heavy words to me, but there were a lot of nods of agreement after the comment was made.

Frustration with Canadian film and television is a topic all on its own. I'll tackle Canadian music for now. Brilliant music can be found buried in the Canadian Music scene, but it's hard to know where to start. The sad truth is, the bands that take the forefront are often talentless and generic. One only has to listen to the great musical rip-off known as Nickelback to understand what I mean. Truly horrifying.

There is the proverbial list of the well knowns --The Tragically Hip, Sarah McLachlan, Chantal Kreviazuk, Avril Lavigne all who have achieved success in their own rights. But there is so much more beneath the surface here, so many bands that have come in and out of the music scene without the acknowledgment they deserved. Most of them, in my humble opinion, more interesting and unique than the artists I've already mentioned (and yes, I do like The Hip).

Bands like Chore (in my mind one of the best ever), Alive and Living, A Northern Chorus, create amazing atmosphere with their non-mainstream, lyrical and often beautiful work. Their use of violins, distortion, clear melodic voice, and hints of the prairies embody many elements of what I consider to be Canadian music. And we can dig into other indie greats too, the magnificent punk band The Smalls. Check out My Saddle Horse Has Died. Brilliant. Of course, they've disbanded as well. But their bassist, Corb Lund has written some intelligent, alternative country that many are taking note of (not much for country myself). If you check out the record label Sonic Unyon you'll find a ton of lesser known, but amazing bands.

It's out there people, but you gotta dig. Find the Indie bands. There are so many bands and genres I've left out, much of it due to my own ignorance. But surely we all can find music with substance, songs that actually illicit a genuine response. Find them, let me know about them. Support the Indie music scene. Say no to generic, boring, tasteless tripe that sounds like everything else you hear on the radio.

Film Adaptations (Part 1: The Introduction)

Film adaptations are common fare in the movie industry. Books, comics, and now even video games all stand the chance of cashing in on one of North America's largest forms of mass entertainment. And why not? The skeleton for such enterprise is already there. Comics, especially the graphic novel, are steeped in visual connection, freeze-frames of static action arranged into the kinetic. Books, the most obvious choice, reach an even wider audience when their delicate and careful narratives are transposed into a visual feast. Even video games, though I loathe to admit ever considering an adaptation of one of these, also contain the basic core elements needed for film: protagonist, conflict, action, resolution. In fact, video games may be a step beyond film in that they take cinematic experience and make it interactive, immersible. So, in some ways their adaption to film can be viewed as regression. But the film adaptation is a money maker to be sure, regardless of what form it adapts from.

Converting books to film is still the most common form of adaptation. We've all had the experience being moved by a delicious piece of literature, perhaps
Michael Ondaatje's The English Patient or
Russell Banks' The Sweet Hereafter or
Affliction.

But often we are disappointed when the book appears on screen. To some extent it's a matter of course. Books, especially well written ones, rely wholly on the imagination of the reader. The author uses their skills, their terse prose or poetic narrative, to relay the story, but the reader gets to construct it all in their mind. The reader has the opportunity to put the blue eyes on the round face or see the fields of barley around a dilapidated barn. The reader takes cues from the author, and then revels in the unending possibility of imagination.

Film is not the same. The audience is presented with the interpretations of others, and they are many. A book is a solitary effort. Films are the result of collaboration. The imagination, at least on the audience's part, is removed --though the suspension of disbelief may be forced to remain. I remember when I saw the first installment of The Lord Of The Rings, I marveled at Gollum on the screen. He fit my experience of him in Tolkien's books to the letter. Same with Aragorn. But this is nothing more than coincidence. Each of us have our own visions of a particular character or setting. The chances of a director and crew, who for the most part are complete strangers to the audience, satisfying every member of an audience is near impossible, and not conducive to creativity at all.

What I'm getting at here is that mass disapproval of film adaptations often stems from a misplaced ethic. The reader wants the book to be represented exactly, and this is impossible. The creators of a film are not privy to the minds of their audience, but on top of that the mediums are quite separate --their own language if you will. Converting a particular story from book to film is really a translation from one language to another. Each medium has its own strengths and limitations. Direct translation is not possible, or if it is possible it certainly is not pragmatic. Decisions are made, risks are calculated, and someone else's interpretation and vision is being captured. If we can accept this from the start, our perception of the final product on screen takes a different quality. We begin to notice the decisions made and question why. We begin to treat the book as a separate work of art from the film. And from here we can generate true criticism.

More to come...

Local Writing Class at Kwantlen

For those of you who live close enough to be interested in this, Ross A. Laird is introducing a new class at Kwantlen University College. Mythological Narratives is designed to explore how most or all stories and writings today have deep roots in ancient mythology. Nothing new under the sun. It's all been written before. Not entirely. All creative process evolves from something. Stories and writing are no different.

Laird is a savvy teacher and an accomplished writer who seems to have information about almost any subject. What is of particular merit is his ability to dissect a sentence, fling away the unnecessary words and grammar, and create clean, meaningful prose. He understands the writing process, the necessity for creative thought and freedom. All this makes for an engaging and interesting class environment.

Paul Thomas Anderson

Right so, one of my favourite directors, Paul Thomas Anderson, known for Magnolia and Punch Drunk Love, has a new film out. There Will Be Blood, based on the Upton Sinclair Novel Oil!, works with the always interesting themes of family, greed, and faith. Of course, having Daniel-Day Lewis, one of if not the best character actor(s) out there, as the lead doesn't hurt either.

I don't normally blog about upcoming films, but I find Paul Thomas' work to be unique in many regards. He relies on all the facets of cinema to help tell his story, not just the usual action sequences and closeups of teary-eyed actors. He's not afraid to introduce a sense of randomness, though it would be erroneous to consider such things wasted scenes. Often accompanied by lengths of silence punctuated by vibrant, focused sound, the stories contain strange events, texture for the characters and narrative, but never so far removed as to be a distraction from the whole. And it works too. The moments in Magnolia and Punch Drunk Love are often breathtaking, always with emotional sincerity and affection. Wonderful stuff.

Now, it remains to be seen if There Will Be Blood will sustain the same elements we've expected in the past. But why should it? Why not just appreciate the fact that a good film is coming down the pipe from a knowledgeable, caring hand? Great films are so few and far between these days, it's always nice to anticipate their arrival.

David Milch Saves Television

Television is an affliction of sorts. Channel after channel of empty escapism, beckoning us away from whatever superficial woes we'd rather not deal with. And what do we find ourselves watching? Washed up comedians hosting game shows. Reruns of sitcoms that were never really that great to begin with. Endless loops of sports highlights mixed with the sub par eloquence of a retired athlete's commentary. It really adds up to horseshit, when you think about it. Even the news is thrown at us with glitzy celebrity tidbits swirled into the latest five car pile-up or murder. What are we really pumping into our brains?

Whatever we're absorbing cultures the way we think. Our conversations reflect our short, jerky attention spans. Seldom are we willing to push our brains into creative thought or process, or truly dialogue about what lurks beneath our shiny exteriors. And it's not just television that is to blame, of course. But it is one hell of a large contributor, and I'm not here saying we shouldn't watch it. For me, the question becomes, can we somehow incorporate creative process and intellectual stimulation into the shows that come on? Is it possible for television to move past brainless sitcoms about cohabiting friends, or dramas about attempted presidential assassinations? Can we find something more entertaining than grown men chasing leather spheres on grass or pavement? You bet your ass we can. Six Feet Under, Dexter, Rome, The Sopranos, all offer serious attention to the process of writing good television. But one creator stands alone at the top.

Enter David Milch, creator, screenwriter, producer. Just read the man's brief bio and right away you'll understand here is a man who is just as passionate about the process as he is about the end product. Yale grad in English Literature, MFA in Writing, award winning writer. Hard to believe this guy is working in television after nine years of teaching. And yet he co-created NYPD Blue, wrote for Hill Street Blues, and served as a consultant for numerous other projects. But what really warrants high praise, and I mean this in the fullest sense, is his creation and work with the HBO projects Deadwood and John From Cincinnati.

Deadwood is one of television's greatest offerings. The outlaw camp setting, the complicated characters, the multiple story lines, all make the show a feast for the senses. And the dialogue is completely remarkable, a vicious but poetic mix of the fading British formalities and rough western vernacular. Even when the language is at its most vile, the dialogue rolls from the characters' tongues like Shakespearean dialect. You can get all three seasons on DVD these days, since no new episodes have aired in quite some time. Well worth checking out.

John From Cincinnati is Milch's latest creation. Set amongst the surfing community in Imperial Beach, California Milch decided to take on some theological concepts by introducing the "what if" premise of God trying to communicate with humanity. At first glance, you would want to roll your eyes, perhaps thinking oh shit here comes the Billy Graham crusade or Dr. James Dobson is at it again. Nothing could be further from the truth. Milch plays with religious archetypes to be sure, but without the nauseating evangelism. The story unfolds more with each episode and I have never been so enthralled with a television show in my life. There is art to this writing, there is creativity and thought and an unabashed attempt to make the viewer consider what he or she is watching. It's not always comfortable, soothing viewing, but it is so worthwhile. It bespeaks of the human condition, and what more could you want?

There is worthwhile television out there folks. You've been told.