Mystic River

Directed by Clint Eastwood

Written by Brian Helgeland

*** (out of ****)

Eastwood's melodrama about the poison still infecting the lives of three childhood friends twenty-five years later is a throwback to the kind of picture Warner Bros. made in the 30s. (It's telling that Eastwood opens the film with a black and white version of the famous WB shield logo.) You can easily imagine James Cagney stepping into the Sean Penn part of a smalltime hood gone straight named Jimmy. Put, say, Bogart in the Kevin Bacon role of Sean, the one who grows up to be a cop, and Pat O'Brian as the one who becomes a priest.

This being 2003 and not 1938, however, Dave is instead molested by a priest, and understandably grows into a basketcase of a man (Tim Robbins).

When Jimmy's 19-year-old daughter is found murdered in a park some 30 years after Dave's abduction and escape, the three men find their lives unexpectedly intwined again.

Eastwood and Helgeland want to make a Shakespearean tragedy out of the modern randomness of crime. The idea is that evil arises out of the attempt to provide sense to otherwise senseless events.

It's no small order, but I think they handicap themselves by sticking too closely to the conventions of the genre. Unlike what he accomplished with the Western in Unforgiven, Eastwood doesn't deepen the crime thriller. He's beholden to it, and it limits the film's ethical and dramatic weight. The red-herrings, false turns, convenient coincidences, and clever twists requisite of even the best episode of Law and Order here never meld with the loftier ambition of its makers.

All three leads give crackerjack performances, but it's the supporting players who really shine as the outsiders who make matters worse: Lawrence Fishburne as SeanÍs partner on the case that brings the trio back together; Marcia Gay Harden who comes to fear her husband, Dave, and his weakness; and Laura Linney who unquestionably loves and admires Jimmy's strength. (The surprise revelation of her devotion near the end of the picture gives Linney a dazzling, Lady Macbeth-like thrill that I've just ruined for you by mentioning it.) If Sean, Dave, and Jimmy are doomed, it's because of these shadows feeding their worst instincts. Given their roles in perpetuating the tragedy among the boyhood friends, however, there more than a slight racist and mysogynistic undertone at play.

Shot in Eastwood's preferred dark, low-key style (even bright sunlight looks overcast) by Tom Stern (the former gaffer to Eastwood's former cinematographer, Jack N. Green). Based on the novel by Thomas Lehane.

Kill Bill--Vol. 1

Written and Directed by Quentin Tarantino

*** (out of ****)

The first full-length review I ever wrote was a piece on Quentin Tarantino's then new Reservoir Dogs back for my high school newspaper. I won't bore you by (or embarrass myself) quoting it here. Suffice it to say I was enthralled.

I'm not sure if it's because I'm older and my tastes have matured, but I wasn't enthralled by Tarantino's much-ballyhooed fourth (skipping his pre-Reservoir independent efforts) film, Kill Bill. (Tarantino's a decade older than me, but he's more deeply rooted in the cinema of his adolescence than I am of mine. To be honest, I'm not sure whether that speaks more ill of him or of me--given I'm just some guy with a blog, I'm tempted to think the latter.) It's not a disaster. It's even actually pretty good. But I can't help thinking that it's too much a victim of Miramax's disastrous marketing efforts. Given the way Tarantino's previous films deepened as they developed, it's probably best to only tentatively evaluate the first part of Tarantino's dissected epic. And as only a causal fan of the dozens of so-called "grindhouse" films Tarantino clearly adores, I was left something less than satisfied with what's left onscreen in Volume 1.

Does Tarantino need Miramax anymore? Certainly they both made their fortunes off one another. Tarantino's first two films helped the distributor move from New York independent to Hollywood powerhouse, and the Weinstein brothers in turn ceaselessly marketed the young, allusive filmmaker as a true auteur, a cinematic progeny sprung from Godard and raised by Scorsese.

But there are two major concessions in Kill Bill obvious to almost anyone: first, reverting to an ugly post-process grey and white for the bloodiest of all the many fight scenes, where the Bride (Uma Thurman) dismembers and decapitates an army of Yakuza on her mission of vengence; and second, releasing what was intended as a single three hour film in two 90 minute chunks. (Volume 2 is to be released in Februrary.)

I wish I could say that poor Tarantino is having these decisions forced upon him, but he's clearly complicit in both these decisions, and they both reek of commercial compromise: the first, to avoid an NC-17 rating in the U.S., and the second, to help double the box-office from fans needing to see both films. (It remains to be seen whether the video and DVD will also be sold in two parts.) Both decisions ultimately aim to help further line the pockets of both the director and his boss, and both detract from the film's quality. Tarantino certainly doesn't need Miramax to make his movies anymore, and other smaller distributors might help support their filmmaker, say, to release the full film with its bloodstained battle scenes intact. (I'll bet you twenty-to-one that when Quentin gets himself into a tizzy watching his dub of the movie at home, that scene is in colour.) Despite the advertising bans in many newspapers, and unwilling exhibitors and video store chains against NC-17 rated films, one naively assumes that if one filmmaker could make the rating mainstream, it's Tarantino.

Unfortunately, Tarantino clearly wants to push our buttons, but apparently only so far. He's not willing to make a stink about it, or risk his career for his art. (No wonder he's a favourite of Harvey's.)

And for fans looking for something deeper those kicks to the head (and swords to the gut, and knives to the knees, and... well, you get my point), perhaps a thematic continuation of the maturity shown in Sam Jackson's conversion in the final act of Pulp Fiction, or the love story between Pam Grier and Robert Forster in Jackie Brown, we have to wait to see if it's there in Volume 2.

That isn't to say Tarantino doesn't continue to push himself. While its populist kick feels more like the natural successor to Pulp Fiction than the more laid-back Jackie Brown, Kill Bill isn't a retread. There are no "Royale with Cheese" conversations.

He does however sometimes scratch his ceiling. His attempts at split screen suspence, while intelligent and purposeful, still pale in comparison to DePalma's brilliant fugues in Blow Out and Dressed to Kill. But no one in Hollywood is Tarantino's equal in his deft handling of nonlinear time, almost Resnais-like in design but more much seamless in execution. (Think back at how naturally Tarantino manages to skew the linear order of events but perfectly orchestrate their placement in his story.) And he continues to show a master's hand with the long take, including a staggering series of steadicam shots, particularly the brilliantly choreographed build-up to the aforementioned battle royale (the actual fight itself, drawing on exaggerated Shaw Brothers Kung-fu and Monty Python goriness, is less inventive by its very nature--although despite Master Yuen Wo Ping's [The Matrix, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon] wire work, the fighters show a much refreshing respect for the laws of gravity). And like his previous films, it's a must own soundtrack, although this time there's a much more "original" score than before (courtesy of the RZA, albeit highly influenced by those grindhouse grooves).

And, come on, Quentin, where's the cameo?

Besides, I've been pretty hard on a lot of revenge films recently (Sam Mendes' feel-good gangster movie, Road to Perdition, comes to mind as a particularly odious offender), and I don't think it would be completely fair or consistent to give Tarantino a free pass. (Tarantino might be invoking the Spaghetti Westerns, but Eastwood already brilliantly undermined their moral limitations in his tragic Unforgiven.) With part two due in four months, however, I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Ask me again in February.