Two film reviews, and a plea for sanity. Lets call it one film review, and one public execution.
Fight Club is jam-packed full of pithy epithets, but one in particular came to mind about half an hour into Domino: this is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time. I like to think I'm a hard girl to offend. I like most movies, virtually every episode of Doctor Who, virtually any Genesis track - when friends recommend me music, I always get to like them. Because of its subjectivity, I try to be open to art in all its forms, and I genuienly can't think of the last time I gave a film a proper lashing.
Well Domino bloody offended me, to the very core of my being. My parents read this blog, so I must kennel the expletives - but to get the full brunt of my anger, imagine this post peppered with cuss words. What WAS that? I mean, apart from godawful cinema. The experience was akin to having my eyes slowly peeled out of my head with a rusty spoon. At several points, I had to clutch my belly in pain - I once considered vomiting, at the gratuitously nasty camerawork. At least it was 15-rated, so the grot won't corrupt young, innocent audiences.
For those of us unfortunate enough to be over that benighted age - for those of us unfortunate enough to be huge fans of Tony Scott and his sweaty pop-vid cinematography - I urge you not to make the same mistake as I. The critics were not lying. Except Ebert and Roeper, who gave it two thumbs up. They were lying. Or watching a different flick. Wikipedia lists it as Domino (film), which is a designation I contest. I've seen episodes of Midsummer Murders more involving.
The - I don't want to dignify it with the word "plot", or "story". The situation is simple - Domino Harvey Dent (oops, sorry - wrong "heads you live, tails you die" flick) is a socialite who becomes a bounty hunter because her goldfish dies. That's all the character development we get, before the pouting, explosions, guns, boobies and slo-mo starts. The Coens could have made it surreal (they did, in Fargo or Raising Arizona) - Tarantino could have made it clever (he did, in True Romance) - frankly, even Pixar would have done a better job, with an anthromorphised rat taking the central role. At least the film doesn't try to apologise for this, with a cunning title which reads: THIS FILM IS BASED ON A TRUE STORY. SORT OF.
In fact, the saddest thing is, I get the impression the Domino we have is exactly the film they set out to make. It's just too much. I get it - it's visceral, it's frenetic, its the feeling of being young, reckless and coked up with nihilism. In principle, that's fine, but the relentless pace quickly tired me, and I felt over-saturated with experience. A rollercoaster is fun for two minutes, and no longer.
That's not the only thing that didn't work; but why reject a dog because you hate the colour of its fur, when the creature is dying of rabies anyway? I like hot girls hefting firearms and shooting the hell out of stuff as much as anyone, but this failed on every level it was possible to fail on. I usually get a fantastic kick out of big-screen gunfights, but these were badly shot, confusing and lacked any sense of immediacy. I like over-directed films, where you can really feel the director showing off - I'd pick them over subtle realism any day of the week. It's just a personal preference. But here, it went way too far, and I was busy being distracted by the directoral pyrotechnics when I should have been getting a handle on plot, characters, anything really. The worst thing is, after sitting through this mess, I fear I may love Man on Fire less - a favourite Tony Scott film which exhibits many of the same stylistic traits, but on a budget. A student budget.
These scenes were twinned with a sountrack which was damned awful, from my sometime favourite composer Harry Gregson-Williams. In the film's defence, my time for hip hop has always been limited - but using an artform so dependant on lyrics necessarily draws you out of the film to concentrate on the music. And even the big-orchestra hits, the sub-Hans Zimmer zingy-generic-foreignness, the steel guitars seemed so awfully wrong, too loud or too discordant. As if the visuals alone weren't confusing enough.
I'm a closet Keira Knightly fan, and she was good - but still woefully miscast. Maybe the extras could act, I don't know - any subtleties were just lost in the mess. All failed at creating characters you cared about, believed in, having an emotional investment in in any way. I felt left out in this world of pumped up manly men and implausibly sassy supervixens. A film doesn't necessarily need to give the audience an easy reference point - the vicarious experience of a life nothing like your own is one of its charms - but it does need to translate some empathy.
Incidentally, script writer Kelly claims "...Domino might be one of the most subversive films released by a major studio since Fight Club" - which can only be true if the definition of "subversive" has been interchanged with "shit" without my notice. Sometimes, when people shun your movie and "don't get it", it could just mean there is everything about it to shun - and nothing there to get.
My father, who braved this endurance test with me, suggested that directors should have a points system, like drivers. They get points every time they commit cinematic crimes, and these add up to an enforced period where they are taken out of the director's chair. So, Mr Scott ("You broke my heart, Fredo. You broke my heart."), ex-respected and -beloved director of mine, I hereby charge you on 208 counts of pointless and distracting flashy camerawork, 48 instances of concentrating on Ms Knightly's scantily clad appendages, 1 huge weird divine metaphor, straight out of the Galactica finale, 19 counts of inappropriate noise when there should be silence, for potentially taking the "worst sex scene of the year" trophy off Watchmen and killing off not one but two goldfish, then expecting to believe both were metaphors for something-or-other.
Punishment is eternity spent at the Mallard cinema, watching only Meet the Spartans on loop. I'll have him beg for mercy, before I even consider giving him a camera again. I let Harry Gregson-Williams off for good behavior.
In a single word? Unecessary. Unecessary noise. You know that feeling when it's seven in the morning, when you've just started having interesting dreams, and then the twit next door starts mowing his lawn? That, in microcosm, is the Domino experience. Come back, Batman Forever! All is forgiven!
In a bizzare reversal of fortune, I did watch one good film today, and that was Behind the Waterfall, the film I bought for 30p at a Church fete. I intended either to enjoy it, or mock it merciless - and it turned out to be really quite marvellous, in a soft-focus, "but mom...!" sort of kiddie movie way. And I cried at the end. Shhhhh, don't tell any one.
The plot is simple: Tommy and Becky go to stay with their country cousins to heal from the death of their father. Tommy becomes convinced oddball shoemaker Mr Connors is a leprichaun. Hilarity ensues as the entire town learns to believe in things they cannot see or touch.
While the white-and-middle-American-ness of the cast assured me "Feature Films for Families" was effectively a Christian organisation, the messages are generic ones of hope and belief - ones parents of any faith would appreciate. Or hippie suckers like me. If anything, it would best suit Pagan parents - hence some rather awkward Christian trappings cemented on here or there, as if someone gave the script a once-over and got alarmed by the talk of tree spirits, animal-visions, and little people. Particularly the scene where the children basically do a shapeshifting visualisation meditation, which could only be more Shamanistic if they'd ingested mushrooms beforehand. So when Mr Connors advocates talking to the wind, he's not referring to Boreus, Aeolus, or the primal element of Air - it's heavily hinted what they really mean is angel-messengers. Our hero Leprichaun is actually working on behalf of St Patrick, who (we are told in a clumsy title screen) was told by his own guardian angel that listening to the pagan Irish stories was OK. So we're safe then.
If I'd wanted to rip it to shreds, I'm sure there was plenty material there, but I let myself be enchanted and have an urge to go on an adventure in the natural world and sit under a tree somewhere. There was only a single moment of serious guffawing - the moment at which Alex works out the true meaning of all the little stories: "Fairies and leprichauns and stuff aren't real - Mr Connors was trying to teach us to believe in something bigger! Our Maker!"
Oh, right. Real stuff like that. Glad you've got that sorted out...I am awfully tempted to order the tie-in book from their website.
Finally, please for the love of humanity, vote in this poll:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/poll/2009/jul/28/best-tv-show-noughties
You're not seriously telling me Top Gear is the greatest televsion achievement of this decade? I admit I have an unnatural dislike of it, based on the number of pianos it has destroyed in recent weeks. I advocate voting Band of Brothers whether you have seen it or not - it's the TV show so good it makes Oscar-winning Saving Private Ryan look like a bad film. It's even better than Doctor Who. Anyway, vote for what you like, then tell me what you voted for.
Fight Club is jam-packed full of pithy epithets, but one in particular came to mind about half an hour into Domino: this is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time. I like to think I'm a hard girl to offend. I like most movies, virtually every episode of Doctor Who, virtually any Genesis track - when friends recommend me music, I always get to like them. Because of its subjectivity, I try to be open to art in all its forms, and I genuienly can't think of the last time I gave a film a proper lashing.
Well Domino bloody offended me, to the very core of my being. My parents read this blog, so I must kennel the expletives - but to get the full brunt of my anger, imagine this post peppered with cuss words. What WAS that? I mean, apart from godawful cinema. The experience was akin to having my eyes slowly peeled out of my head with a rusty spoon. At several points, I had to clutch my belly in pain - I once considered vomiting, at the gratuitously nasty camerawork. At least it was 15-rated, so the grot won't corrupt young, innocent audiences.
For those of us unfortunate enough to be over that benighted age - for those of us unfortunate enough to be huge fans of Tony Scott and his sweaty pop-vid cinematography - I urge you not to make the same mistake as I. The critics were not lying. Except Ebert and Roeper, who gave it two thumbs up. They were lying. Or watching a different flick. Wikipedia lists it as Domino (film), which is a designation I contest. I've seen episodes of Midsummer Murders more involving.
The - I don't want to dignify it with the word "plot", or "story". The situation is simple - Domino Harvey Dent (oops, sorry - wrong "heads you live, tails you die" flick) is a socialite who becomes a bounty hunter because her goldfish dies. That's all the character development we get, before the pouting, explosions, guns, boobies and slo-mo starts. The Coens could have made it surreal (they did, in Fargo or Raising Arizona) - Tarantino could have made it clever (he did, in True Romance) - frankly, even Pixar would have done a better job, with an anthromorphised rat taking the central role. At least the film doesn't try to apologise for this, with a cunning title which reads: THIS FILM IS BASED ON A TRUE STORY. SORT OF.
In fact, the saddest thing is, I get the impression the Domino we have is exactly the film they set out to make. It's just too much. I get it - it's visceral, it's frenetic, its the feeling of being young, reckless and coked up with nihilism. In principle, that's fine, but the relentless pace quickly tired me, and I felt over-saturated with experience. A rollercoaster is fun for two minutes, and no longer.
That's not the only thing that didn't work; but why reject a dog because you hate the colour of its fur, when the creature is dying of rabies anyway? I like hot girls hefting firearms and shooting the hell out of stuff as much as anyone, but this failed on every level it was possible to fail on. I usually get a fantastic kick out of big-screen gunfights, but these were badly shot, confusing and lacked any sense of immediacy. I like over-directed films, where you can really feel the director showing off - I'd pick them over subtle realism any day of the week. It's just a personal preference. But here, it went way too far, and I was busy being distracted by the directoral pyrotechnics when I should have been getting a handle on plot, characters, anything really. The worst thing is, after sitting through this mess, I fear I may love Man on Fire less - a favourite Tony Scott film which exhibits many of the same stylistic traits, but on a budget. A student budget.
These scenes were twinned with a sountrack which was damned awful, from my sometime favourite composer Harry Gregson-Williams. In the film's defence, my time for hip hop has always been limited - but using an artform so dependant on lyrics necessarily draws you out of the film to concentrate on the music. And even the big-orchestra hits, the sub-Hans Zimmer zingy-generic-foreignness, the steel guitars seemed so awfully wrong, too loud or too discordant. As if the visuals alone weren't confusing enough.
I'm a closet Keira Knightly fan, and she was good - but still woefully miscast. Maybe the extras could act, I don't know - any subtleties were just lost in the mess. All failed at creating characters you cared about, believed in, having an emotional investment in in any way. I felt left out in this world of pumped up manly men and implausibly sassy supervixens. A film doesn't necessarily need to give the audience an easy reference point - the vicarious experience of a life nothing like your own is one of its charms - but it does need to translate some empathy.
Incidentally, script writer Kelly claims "...Domino might be one of the most subversive films released by a major studio since Fight Club" - which can only be true if the definition of "subversive" has been interchanged with "shit" without my notice. Sometimes, when people shun your movie and "don't get it", it could just mean there is everything about it to shun - and nothing there to get.
My father, who braved this endurance test with me, suggested that directors should have a points system, like drivers. They get points every time they commit cinematic crimes, and these add up to an enforced period where they are taken out of the director's chair. So, Mr Scott ("You broke my heart, Fredo. You broke my heart."), ex-respected and -beloved director of mine, I hereby charge you on 208 counts of pointless and distracting flashy camerawork, 48 instances of concentrating on Ms Knightly's scantily clad appendages, 1 huge weird divine metaphor, straight out of the Galactica finale, 19 counts of inappropriate noise when there should be silence, for potentially taking the "worst sex scene of the year" trophy off Watchmen and killing off not one but two goldfish, then expecting to believe both were metaphors for something-or-other.
Punishment is eternity spent at the Mallard cinema, watching only Meet the Spartans on loop. I'll have him beg for mercy, before I even consider giving him a camera again. I let Harry Gregson-Williams off for good behavior.
In a single word? Unecessary. Unecessary noise. You know that feeling when it's seven in the morning, when you've just started having interesting dreams, and then the twit next door starts mowing his lawn? That, in microcosm, is the Domino experience. Come back, Batman Forever! All is forgiven!
In a bizzare reversal of fortune, I did watch one good film today, and that was Behind the Waterfall, the film I bought for 30p at a Church fete. I intended either to enjoy it, or mock it merciless - and it turned out to be really quite marvellous, in a soft-focus, "but mom...!" sort of kiddie movie way. And I cried at the end. Shhhhh, don't tell any one.
The plot is simple: Tommy and Becky go to stay with their country cousins to heal from the death of their father. Tommy becomes convinced oddball shoemaker Mr Connors is a leprichaun. Hilarity ensues as the entire town learns to believe in things they cannot see or touch.
While the white-and-middle-American-ness of the cast assured me "Feature Films for Families" was effectively a Christian organisation, the messages are generic ones of hope and belief - ones parents of any faith would appreciate. Or hippie suckers like me. If anything, it would best suit Pagan parents - hence some rather awkward Christian trappings cemented on here or there, as if someone gave the script a once-over and got alarmed by the talk of tree spirits, animal-visions, and little people. Particularly the scene where the children basically do a shapeshifting visualisation meditation, which could only be more Shamanistic if they'd ingested mushrooms beforehand. So when Mr Connors advocates talking to the wind, he's not referring to Boreus, Aeolus, or the primal element of Air - it's heavily hinted what they really mean is angel-messengers. Our hero Leprichaun is actually working on behalf of St Patrick, who (we are told in a clumsy title screen) was told by his own guardian angel that listening to the pagan Irish stories was OK. So we're safe then.
If I'd wanted to rip it to shreds, I'm sure there was plenty material there, but I let myself be enchanted and have an urge to go on an adventure in the natural world and sit under a tree somewhere. There was only a single moment of serious guffawing - the moment at which Alex works out the true meaning of all the little stories: "Fairies and leprichauns and stuff aren't real - Mr Connors was trying to teach us to believe in something bigger! Our Maker!"
Oh, right. Real stuff like that. Glad you've got that sorted out...I am awfully tempted to order the tie-in book from their website.
Finally, please for the love of humanity, vote in this poll:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/poll/2009/jul/28/best-tv-show-noughties
You're not seriously telling me Top Gear is the greatest televsion achievement of this decade? I admit I have an unnatural dislike of it, based on the number of pianos it has destroyed in recent weeks. I advocate voting Band of Brothers whether you have seen it or not - it's the TV show so good it makes Oscar-winning Saving Private Ryan look like a bad film. It's even better than Doctor Who. Anyway, vote for what you like, then tell me what you voted for.
Comments (3)
After a lot of to and fro-ing, I went for band of Brothers too, although it was a near thing. Doesn't really matter though, seeing as Top Gear is pwning everything. Like, I think it's fun to dip in to watch and entertaining, but against Peabody-winning, and like, high-production value shows like Lost, BSG and BoB? Hell to the no.
I went West Wing, because I'm a sucker for luscious strings and heroic liberalism. But most of my favourite shows are on that list - Arrested Development, Band of Brothers, House, Life on Mars...
Not an easy decision.
I shall avoid Domino, although I can't say I was all that keen before this review. (I also quite liked Man on Fire, although I felt rather queasy all the way through. I know that was the point, but it was still unpleasant.)
I regard Man on Fire as the ultimate date movie. A touching story of a lonely girl bonding with a lost soul - with explosions and kickass-one-liners.