Leaves are Brown
During my incessant webflipping I realized that all the truly interesting sites I go to are blogs, or at least journals or records of some kind, and that none of them are being updated with any regularity or, indeed, have been updated any time of late. I would chastise them for it openly, save for the fact that I realized I am hardly any better. However, to both set and example and in order to avoid becoming that which I despise, there are steps that can be taken.
And, seeing as how this week marks my return to the old alma mater, I've decided to take back up my abandoned creed of scrutinizing my intellectual fare of choice, to the end that it might stimulate me into higher cerebral functioning and success in matters of the mind.
Thusly... a film review.
...
The Brothers Grimm
Gather, my darlings, and harken unto me. I have for you a tale of mystery, a tale of wonder, and a tale of untapped potential.
Once upon time, in a far away kingdom (1969, in England, respectively) there was formed a comedy troupe (as they were referred to in that day) called Monty Python's Flying Circus, and, O, what a troupe they were.
Known for their dry, English wit, their sardonic and often punchline-less humor, and an almost compulsive need to challenge every norm possible in not only their chosen medium, but also their chosen category. Together, the members of this rabble each added their own particular flair that, when combined on the great appliance of the late 20th century (and, later, on the Great American Art Form), became something so powerfully moving, in a humorous context, that the ripples it created can still be seen as the tremors and undulations persisting today in modern culture and everyday life.
There was one of this troupe (as, I said, they were referred to as such) who stood out, however. Yes, every member had their own style, their own specific pecadillos (Eric Idle with his distinctive, unmistakable tambre, Michael Palin with his undeniable charm, adn John Cleese with his... height) , but this one was... unique.
Terry Gilliam was an American, the only one in the troupe (as they were called in those times). He was also rarely in front of the camera, preferring to and, indeed, having been hired to make brief, tangential animations of a variety difficult to categorize. They were original, both in content and form (a Python trait, through and through), and had a biting social commentary to them folded into the Python absurdity that delivered a delightful syncopation to the rest of the troupe's live-action theatrics. The show would end, but the troupe (so they were called) would remain together, trading one screen in for another of grander scale, and finding even more immortality within it.
However, the story of Terry Gilliam is a singular one, and one that goes well beyond his involvement with the Pythoners (which, I suppose... they were also called at one point). He went on to direct some of the most eccentric cult films ever created, and to this...
What? No, that's Terry Jones. Yeah, he's a different Pythoner. He's the short, fat one. Terry Gilliam is a director.
For example, Terry Gilliam is responsible for a surprising canon of cult films, including such immediately-recognizable-to-the-cult-fanatic titles as Brazil, The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, 12 Monkeys, Time Bandits, the recently notorious Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and, the cult classic to rule them all, one of the twin jewels in the crown of cult cinema next to the Rocky Horror Picture Show, Monty Python & the Quest for the Holy Grail.
Yeah, Jones directed Holy Grail, but so did Gilliam, and then he went on to do other movies, which is what we're talking about, okay?
No, he didn't write any books about fairies. That's Jones too. He's English. Gilliam's American.
Okay?
Okay?
Alright.
Gilliam, as can be seen by his body of work, has a place in his heart for the eccentric, singular, odd, but wholly enjoyable film. Sadly, the bizarre quality of his films renders them somewhat intellectually inaccesible in the immediate sense to the mass market, which has lead, in turns, to their commercial failure and their subseuqent long lives, finding their home in retrospective appreciation and, recently, in DVD sales.
But commercial success is not the tragedy of Terry Gilliam. The tragedy of Terry Gilliam is the studio system, and the essential blacklisting he has experienced simply because of the poor marketing, idiotic reception, and misunderstanding representation he has recieved at the hands of the corporation that is the film industry. Rumors about of shoots being cancelles a week into filming, of essential Hollywood blacklisting in the face of artistic integrity and unconventionalism, but the fact of the matter is that Terry Gilliam doesn't get to make as many films as he'd like to or, indeed, any of us would like him to.
So, when he finally does get to make a film, it's the fucking Brothers Grimm, right?
The film itself gets you, in the end. The teeth on the cogs that seem to drive the machination seem to catch only after about an hour of slipping, and once the film's built up its steam it doesn't stop until the end, but that's hardly enough to save the thing. "It makes up for it" is an admission of failure in some arena, and any abject failure in any arena keeps a film from being truly good, as this one has been kept.
A large complaint I have with the film (which is not a usual complaint for me, so I hope its unusual inclusion shows just how much it affects the film) is its sad reliance on what turns out to be sub-standard digital effects. One scene in particular involves a scarf blowing in the wind with a mind of its own, luring a girl further and further into the forest which, especially considering her eventual destination, smacks of Gilliam, but the poorly rendered and wholly unreal scarf superimposed onto the scene removes you immediately from the film. In a movie largely based in fantasy and surreality, as so many of Gilliam's films are, no slack can be afforded in the creation of realism, and the scarf looked nothing but unreal.
Scarf - bad. Axe - good. Wolf - eh.
It's this peppering of acceptable CGI that takes away from much of the film's immersibility. The film clicked along, the gears eventually pulling me with it, but for a big part of the movie I simply wasn't there.
In his other films, Gilliam has always used effects in completely original ways, and always to move the plot along. He used them as devices, not as gimmicks. Here, it seems as if it was just easier to film the river then put in a scarf, easier to film a scene then include a wolf. Looking back to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, visual effects used for the "melting" of the carpet pattern, and for the visual manifestation of Steadman-like drawings found in the novel (a nice homage to the original work, yes, but also a way of bringing the whole of the work to the front of experience, as the book itself should hardly be separated, in anyone's mind, from Ralphie's illustrations) neither of which could be accomplished, as Gilliam envisioned them within his mind, without the help of computer effects, and it therefore becomes an extremely creative and original usage of the tool. Here, they're simply filling in gaps.
There are saving graces present, a large hunk of which is the snarling, sadistic Peter Stormare, who flings daggers, tortures innocents, and basically charismas his way into the hearts of the audience. After a time, I stopped being interested in the vague familial dissapointments the Bros. Grimm were having with each other, their individual states of ennui no longer being appealing without any reference, and simply waited for Stormare to stalk back onto the screen, being characteristically and dialectically the most interesting thing I could find about the film.
There are some great visuals, as one would expect from Gilliam, and there are good performances (outside of Stormare's loping triumph), and there are plenty of French people, but none of this is enough, in the end, to elevate this movie to the level that one should expect coming from Terry Gilliam. Did we all know the wolf was her father? Yes. Did we all know the coffins were being filled with the children from the village? Probably. Were we all happy when the general finally got spitted? Of course we were, he was foreign and snotty, and as far as any American sensibility is concerned, that's grounds for impalement. Plus, he tried to kill Peter Stormare, and you simply don't do that.
Even Frances McDormand shot for the legs.
And here we are. After years of waiting for the next film to come out, after years of patient hopefulness, we are delivered a weight that drags not only ourselves and the film community down, but Gilliam's respectability. I don't want to hear from anyone that this was a "money" picture. Look at the man's body of work, and you tell me if he's the sort to give a shit about the money. If anyone is going to stand up to Hollywood, big budget or no, and turn the money down for artistic validity, it was going to be Gilliam. Instead, he picked up this film and made it, just made it, without really taking it into himself, without really creating. The Brothers Grimm could have been made by whoever the hell made Van Helsing, and I wouldn't have been surprised or, indeed, able to tell the difference.
The End.
Give Peter Stormare an Oscar, or he will put you in a wood chipper.
And, seeing as how this week marks my return to the old alma mater, I've decided to take back up my abandoned creed of scrutinizing my intellectual fare of choice, to the end that it might stimulate me into higher cerebral functioning and success in matters of the mind.
Thusly... a film review.
...
The Brothers Grimm
Gather, my darlings, and harken unto me. I have for you a tale of mystery, a tale of wonder, and a tale of untapped potential.
Once upon time, in a far away kingdom (1969, in England, respectively) there was formed a comedy troupe (as they were referred to in that day) called Monty Python's Flying Circus, and, O, what a troupe they were.
Known for their dry, English wit, their sardonic and often punchline-less humor, and an almost compulsive need to challenge every norm possible in not only their chosen medium, but also their chosen category. Together, the members of this rabble each added their own particular flair that, when combined on the great appliance of the late 20th century (and, later, on the Great American Art Form), became something so powerfully moving, in a humorous context, that the ripples it created can still be seen as the tremors and undulations persisting today in modern culture and everyday life.
There was one of this troupe (as, I said, they were referred to as such) who stood out, however. Yes, every member had their own style, their own specific pecadillos (Eric Idle with his distinctive, unmistakable tambre, Michael Palin with his undeniable charm, adn John Cleese with his... height) , but this one was... unique.
Terry Gilliam was an American, the only one in the troupe (as they were called in those times). He was also rarely in front of the camera, preferring to and, indeed, having been hired to make brief, tangential animations of a variety difficult to categorize. They were original, both in content and form (a Python trait, through and through), and had a biting social commentary to them folded into the Python absurdity that delivered a delightful syncopation to the rest of the troupe's live-action theatrics. The show would end, but the troupe (so they were called) would remain together, trading one screen in for another of grander scale, and finding even more immortality within it.
However, the story of Terry Gilliam is a singular one, and one that goes well beyond his involvement with the Pythoners (which, I suppose... they were also called at one point). He went on to direct some of the most eccentric cult films ever created, and to this...
What? No, that's Terry Jones. Yeah, he's a different Pythoner. He's the short, fat one. Terry Gilliam is a director.
For example, Terry Gilliam is responsible for a surprising canon of cult films, including such immediately-recognizable-to-the-cult-fanatic titles as Brazil, The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, 12 Monkeys, Time Bandits, the recently notorious Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and, the cult classic to rule them all, one of the twin jewels in the crown of cult cinema next to the Rocky Horror Picture Show, Monty Python & the Quest for the Holy Grail.
Yeah, Jones directed Holy Grail, but so did Gilliam, and then he went on to do other movies, which is what we're talking about, okay?
No, he didn't write any books about fairies. That's Jones too. He's English. Gilliam's American.
Okay?
Okay?
Alright.
Gilliam, as can be seen by his body of work, has a place in his heart for the eccentric, singular, odd, but wholly enjoyable film. Sadly, the bizarre quality of his films renders them somewhat intellectually inaccesible in the immediate sense to the mass market, which has lead, in turns, to their commercial failure and their subseuqent long lives, finding their home in retrospective appreciation and, recently, in DVD sales.
But commercial success is not the tragedy of Terry Gilliam. The tragedy of Terry Gilliam is the studio system, and the essential blacklisting he has experienced simply because of the poor marketing, idiotic reception, and misunderstanding representation he has recieved at the hands of the corporation that is the film industry. Rumors about of shoots being cancelles a week into filming, of essential Hollywood blacklisting in the face of artistic integrity and unconventionalism, but the fact of the matter is that Terry Gilliam doesn't get to make as many films as he'd like to or, indeed, any of us would like him to.
So, when he finally does get to make a film, it's the fucking Brothers Grimm, right?
The film itself gets you, in the end. The teeth on the cogs that seem to drive the machination seem to catch only after about an hour of slipping, and once the film's built up its steam it doesn't stop until the end, but that's hardly enough to save the thing. "It makes up for it" is an admission of failure in some arena, and any abject failure in any arena keeps a film from being truly good, as this one has been kept.
A large complaint I have with the film (which is not a usual complaint for me, so I hope its unusual inclusion shows just how much it affects the film) is its sad reliance on what turns out to be sub-standard digital effects. One scene in particular involves a scarf blowing in the wind with a mind of its own, luring a girl further and further into the forest which, especially considering her eventual destination, smacks of Gilliam, but the poorly rendered and wholly unreal scarf superimposed onto the scene removes you immediately from the film. In a movie largely based in fantasy and surreality, as so many of Gilliam's films are, no slack can be afforded in the creation of realism, and the scarf looked nothing but unreal.
Scarf - bad. Axe - good. Wolf - eh.
It's this peppering of acceptable CGI that takes away from much of the film's immersibility. The film clicked along, the gears eventually pulling me with it, but for a big part of the movie I simply wasn't there.
In his other films, Gilliam has always used effects in completely original ways, and always to move the plot along. He used them as devices, not as gimmicks. Here, it seems as if it was just easier to film the river then put in a scarf, easier to film a scene then include a wolf. Looking back to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, visual effects used for the "melting" of the carpet pattern, and for the visual manifestation of Steadman-like drawings found in the novel (a nice homage to the original work, yes, but also a way of bringing the whole of the work to the front of experience, as the book itself should hardly be separated, in anyone's mind, from Ralphie's illustrations) neither of which could be accomplished, as Gilliam envisioned them within his mind, without the help of computer effects, and it therefore becomes an extremely creative and original usage of the tool. Here, they're simply filling in gaps.
There are saving graces present, a large hunk of which is the snarling, sadistic Peter Stormare, who flings daggers, tortures innocents, and basically charismas his way into the hearts of the audience. After a time, I stopped being interested in the vague familial dissapointments the Bros. Grimm were having with each other, their individual states of ennui no longer being appealing without any reference, and simply waited for Stormare to stalk back onto the screen, being characteristically and dialectically the most interesting thing I could find about the film.
There are some great visuals, as one would expect from Gilliam, and there are good performances (outside of Stormare's loping triumph), and there are plenty of French people, but none of this is enough, in the end, to elevate this movie to the level that one should expect coming from Terry Gilliam. Did we all know the wolf was her father? Yes. Did we all know the coffins were being filled with the children from the village? Probably. Were we all happy when the general finally got spitted? Of course we were, he was foreign and snotty, and as far as any American sensibility is concerned, that's grounds for impalement. Plus, he tried to kill Peter Stormare, and you simply don't do that.
Even Frances McDormand shot for the legs.
And here we are. After years of waiting for the next film to come out, after years of patient hopefulness, we are delivered a weight that drags not only ourselves and the film community down, but Gilliam's respectability. I don't want to hear from anyone that this was a "money" picture. Look at the man's body of work, and you tell me if he's the sort to give a shit about the money. If anyone is going to stand up to Hollywood, big budget or no, and turn the money down for artistic validity, it was going to be Gilliam. Instead, he picked up this film and made it, just made it, without really taking it into himself, without really creating. The Brothers Grimm could have been made by whoever the hell made Van Helsing, and I wouldn't have been surprised or, indeed, able to tell the difference.
The End.
Give Peter Stormare an Oscar, or he will put you in a wood chipper.
posted by DeadLanguage at 12:10 PM
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