VIVICA A. FOX as Shante Smith in Two Can Play That Game
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Mulholland Dr. (David Lynch, 2001)
Naomi Watts and Laura Harring in Mulholland Dr.
Cast: Naomi Watts, Laura Harring, Robert Forster, Brent Briscoe, Patrick Fischler, Ann Miller, Angelo Badalamenti, Dan Hedaya, Justin Theroux, Mark Pellegrino, Billy Ray Cyrus, Lee Grant, Chad Everett. Screenplay: David Lynch. Cinematography: Peter Deming. Production design: Jack Fisk. Film editing: Mary Sweeney. Music: Angelo Badalamenti.
Mulholland Dr. defies exegesis like no other film I know. Sure, you can trace its origins: Car-crash amnesia is a soap-opera trope; the mysterious mobsters and other manipulators are film noir staples; the portrayal of Hollywood as a nightmare dreamland is straight from Sunset Blvd. (Billy Wilder, 1950), which the film even imitates by having its before-the-credits title appear on a street sign. But writer-director David Lynch isn’t out to parody the sources – not entirely, anyway. What he is up to is harder to pinpoint. There’s a part of me that thinks Lynch just wants to have fun – a nasty kind of fun – manipulating our responses. At the beginning, we’re on to him in that regard: We laugh at the minimal conversation between the two detectives (Robert Forster and Brent Briscoe) at the crash site. We recognize the naive awe on the face of Betty Elms (Naomi Watts), as she arrives in Los Angeles, as a throwback to the old Hollywood musicals in which choruses of hopefuls arrive at the L.A. train station singing “Hooray for Hollywood!” (Has anyone ever been inspired to sing and dance when arriving at LAX?) We’re delighted by the appearance of Ann Miller as the landlady, just as later we identify Lee Grant, Chad Everett, and even Billy Ray Cyrus in their cameos. Even the seemingly disjointed scenes – the director, Adam Kesher (Justin Theroux), is bullied by the Castiglianes (Dan Hedaya and the film’s composer, Angelo Badalamenti), or a man (Patrick Fischler) recounts his nightmare at a restaurant called Winkie’s, or a hit man (Mark Pellegrino) murders three people – are standard thriller stuff, designed to keep us guessing – though at that point, having seen this sort of thing in films by Quentin Tarantino and others, we feel confident that everything will fit together. And then, suddenly, it doesn’t. Betty vanishes and Diane Selwyn (Watts), whom we have thought dead, is alive. The amnesia victim known as Rita (Laura Harring) is now Camilla Rhodes, the movie star that Betty wanted to be, and Diane, Camilla’s former lover, wants to kill her. It’s such a complete overthrow of conventional narrative that there are really only two basic responses, neither of them quite sufficient: One is to dismiss the film as a wacked-out experiment in playing with the audience – “a load of moronic and incoherent garbage,” in the words of Rex Reed – or to try to assimilate it into some coherent and consistent scheme, like the theory that the first two-thirds of the film are the disillusioned Diane Selwyn’s dream-fantasy of what her life might have been as the fresh and talented Betty. There is truth in both extremes: Lynch is playing with the audience, and he is portraying Los Angeles as a land of dreamers. But his film will never be forced into coherence, and it can’t be entirely dismissed. I think it is some kind of great film – the Sight & Sound critics poll in 2022 ranked it at No. 8 in the list of the greatest films of all time, up from No. 28 in 2012 – but I also think it’s self-indulgent and something of a dead end when it comes to narrative filmmaking. It has moments of sheer brilliance, including a performance by Watts that is superb, but they are moments in a somewhat annoying whole.
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Just give me a moment to redefine my girlish notions of romance. A BEAUTIFUL MIND [2001]
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Millennium Mambo (Hou Hsiao-hsien, 2001)
Shu Qi in Millennium Mambo
Cast: Shu Qi, Jack Kao, Duan Chun-hao, Chen Yi-Hsuan, Jun Takeuchi, Doze Niu, Jenny Tsen Yan Lei, Pauline Chan, Huang Xiao Chu. Screenplay: Chu T'ien-wen. Cinematography: Mark Lee Ping-bing. Production design: Huang Wen-Yin, Wang Chih-cheng. Film editing: Yoshihiro Hanno, DJ Fish, Giong Lim.
In Millennium Mambo, Hou Hsiao-hsien presents Vicky (Shu Qi) to us as an object of contemplation, as lacking in agency and volition as an apple in a Cézanne still life. She is being contemplated not only by us but also by herself, ten years later, so Vicky sometimes narrates events before we even see them. She is existentially passive, allowing herself to be propelled through life by others, especially men and particularly her boyfriend Hao-Hao (Duan Chun-hao) and the gangster Jack (Jack Kao). Naturally, as a woman and not an apple, she responds to stimuli, pleasure and pain, but we’re no more expected to pass judgment on her than we are the apple. It’s a film that replaces plot and narrative with incident and images, handsomely provided by cinematographer Mark Lee Ping-bing, in a cinema moving away from novels and plays toward paintings and sculpture, yet retaining a connection with actuality inherent in the medium. Millennial indeed.
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Marisa Tomei as Natalie Strout / In the Bedroom (2001)
Academy Award Nominated as Best Supporting Actress
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The Mummy: The Animated Series 2001/2003 DVD Video
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Seasonvar Kinopoisk
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Y Tu Mamá También (Alfonso Cuarón, 2001)
Gael García Bernal in Y Tu Mamá También
Cast: Maribel Verdú, Gael García Bernal, Diego Luna, Daniel Giménez Cacho (voice), Diana Bracho, Andrés Almeida, Ana López Mercado, Nathan Grinberg, Verónica Langer, Maria Aura, Juan Carlos Remolina, Silverio Palacios. Screenplay: Carlos Cuarón, Alfonso Cuarón. Cinematography: Emmanuel Lubezki. Production design: Marc Bedia, Miguel Ángel Álvarez. Film editing: Alfonso Cuarón, Alex Rodríguez.
Alfonso Cuarón’s Y Tu Mamá También is kept aloft for so long by wit and energy, and by the skills of its actors, director, and cinematographer, that it’s a disappointment to consider the way it deflates a little at the end. It is, on the whole, a brilliant transfiguration of several well-worn genres: the teen sex comedy, the road movie, the coming-of-age fable. Cuarón has credited Jean-Luc Godard’s Masculin Féminin (1966) as a major inspiration, but I think it owes as much to François Truffaut’s Jules and Jim (1962), not least in Daniel Giménez Cacho’s superbly ironic voiceover narrator, who provides a larger context for the actions of the three main characters. It’s the narrator, for instance, who tells us that the traffic jam that holds up our middle-class teenagers was caused by the death of a working man who tried to cross the freeway because otherwise he would have had to walk a mile and a half out of his way to use the only crossing bridge. Or that Chuy, the fisherman who befriends the trio when they finally reach the secluded beach, will lose his livelihood to developers and commercial fisheries and wind up as a janitor in an Acapulco hotel. Somehow, Cuarón manages to avoid heavy-handedness with these comments, injecting the necessary amount of serious social commentary into a story about two horny Mexico City teenagers and the older woman who goes in search of a beach called “Heaven’s Mouth” with them. Even in the story, the subtext of social class in contemporary Mexico keeps peeking through: There’s a slight tension between the upper-middle-class Tenoch (Diego Luna), whose father is a government official, and the lower-middle-class Julio (Gael García Bernal) that’s suggestive of Tenoch’s sense of privilege. Similarly, Luisa (Maribel Verdú), who was trained as a dental technician, confesses to a sense of inferiority to her husband, Jano (Juan Carlos Remolina), Tenoch’s cousin, and his better-educated friends. The screenplay by Cuarón and his brother, Carlos, deserved the Oscar nomination it received for these attempts to provide a deep backstory for the characters. Even so, the film owes much to the obvious rapport between Luna and García Bernal, and to the steady centering influence of Verdú, all of whom participated in rehearsals that were often improvisatory embroidering on the Cuaróns’s screenplay. Cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki, who would go on to receive three consecutive Oscars for much showier work on Cuarón’s Gravity (2013) and on Alejandro Iñárritu’s Birdman (2104) and The Revenant (2015), here maintains a strictly documentary style of camerawork, though often with the subtle use of long takes and wide-angle lenses. As I said, I think the film deflates a bit at the end with the revelation of Luisa’s death: It seems an unnecessary attempt to moralize, to provide a motive – knowing that she has terminal cancer – for her running away and having sex with the boys, turning it into only a final fling. Would we think less of Luisa if she were simply asserting her right to be as pleasure-driven as her philandering husband? Were the Cuaróns attempting to obviate slut-shaming by giving Luisa cancer? I hope not, because the film shows such intelligence and sensitivity otherwise.
