And out of winter's dark night, there came a light . . .

It's no secret that the beginning of each new year is usually filled with many of what will become the year's worst films. After the usual surge in quality that occurs at year's end as studios rush to release their films in the Academy's extremely short memory span, the well seems to go dry and, come January 1st, we don't get anything that good for far too long.

So, it's with great surprise that this pessimist reports to you that 2010 looks like it might be an exception to that time honored tradition.

Shutter Island (3/19) - FilmNinja and I were talking the other day about just how long this one had been on the backburner, and, believe you me, it's been far too long. The mind-bending thriller formerly known as Ashecliffe has been delayed again and again, and it's TIME to put this one out! Scorsese. DiCaprio. De Niro. Enough said.

Alice In Wonderland (3/5) - I'm not normally a Tim Burton guy, but for some reason, this one is a must-see for me. The idea of making a sequel of sorts to the original story is a very interesting one that, perhaps, might be the best possible scenario. We all know the original story well enough that a re-imagining, complete with familiar characters in new situations, is a really exciting idea. I'm thinking of seeing it in 2D, and then, if it's good enough, maybe seeing it again in 3D. Who knows? I did that for Avatar, but that was AVATAR. Itty bitty difference.

The Ghost Writer (?/?) - Roman Polanski was working on this film at the time of his arrest, and continued to do so confined in his home. This certainly isn't the first time he's been compelled to be absent from his own set, and it'll be fascinating to see how well The Ghost Writer works, given the tenuous conditions surrounding its creation. I'm inclined to think that, if anyone can, Roman Polanski is that guy.

I may never have told you this before, but I just love the movies!!!

The Mighty Marty

I watched GoodFellas for the first time last night, and, as a result, have a bit of an observation about Martin Scorsese's work in general.

Is it possible that the man who's widely regarded as the world's greatest living director makes films that work as mental exercises but occasionally lack a beating heart? I've seen 6 of his films to date, and I've liked each of them. However, I haven't always felt an emotional connection to the characters on the screen. I wonder if this is something that is unique to me or if there are others who feel similarly.

I suppose that I need to qualify that observation. He's definitely got at least one film that I would consider a masterpiece. Raging Bull is an unqualified success on multiple levels, and, out of the Scorsese films that I've seen so far, is easily the best. There are reasons that this film is often considered in the discussion of the greatest movies ever made. I would not hesitate to consider this one of the greatest films of the 1980's, if not THE greatest.

It's important for me to get that out in the open. I don't want you to think that I'm at all dismissive of his work.

It's just that GoodFellas, while a good movie, doesn't really hit me on any real kind of gut level. Sure, there were moments where I was moved or felt that something in particular was fairly compelling, but, on the whole, it doesn't seem to add up to something particularly lasting. I marvel at those who say that GoodFellas is the cinema's greatest exploration of the mafia. I think that that honor belongs to The Godfather and The Godfather Part II. Case closed. No questions asked.

Here's the deal. Francis Ford Coppola and Martin Scorsese obviously have very different interpretations of the mafia. Coppola's interested in showing life as a gangster from the top down, and Scorsese's interested in it from the bottom up. That said, there are, by necessity, going to be stylistic and structural differences between the films made from these two perspectives. I think the edge easily goes to Coppola.

Here's an example. In both GoodFellas and The Godfather Part II, there's a scene in which the main character's wife reveals something to him that creates conflict and confusion. In Coppola's film, in that moment, the performances were pitch-perfect. The scene was pitch-perfect. My jaw literally dropped. My opinion of Diane Keaton's skill as an actress skyrocketed in an instant. In Scorsese's film, while I felt a certain level of sympathy for the characters, when the two of them are sitting on the floor crying, I couldn't help but feel that, in Lorraine Bracco, I was witnessing an actress try really hard to make me believe that she was broken up instead of embodying that emotion.

What's more, Coppola managed to make a piece of art out what was essentially a great pulp novel. He discovered depths to the material that made it seem almost Shakespearean in scope. On the other hand, Scorsese's film feels somewhat scatterbrained by comparison.

Here are a couple of things that distracted me from what GoodFellas seems to have been trying to do in painting a convincing portrait of the mafia. First off, the persistent narration seemed to be trying to keep me at arm's length, particularly during the first act. I was prepared to get into a real, honest-to-god MOVIE, but the voice-over seemed to be self-consciously reminding me that I was experiencing something constructed by a filmmaker. Recognizing what one is watching as artifice isn't necessarily bad, but, in this case, it was distracting. I wanted the narration to stop so that the narrative could actually start. Also, I found it odd that there were two narrators. I think the film would have been more tightly focused by only having one. The contrast seemed slightly jarring when it was first introduced.

Additionally, I didn't think that Ray Liotta was entirely convincing as the lead character. This might seem like a minor complaint, but whenever Henry Hill laughed, it always struck me as seeming fake in some way. It may only be a slight nuance, but, if you're going to have guy laugh all the time in a movie, it's important that he doesn't look like he's faking it. On the other hand, Robert De Niro was solid, as was Joe Pesci, but the focus was clearly on Liotta, and I don't think he was up to the challenge.

What's more, by the time the final act rolls around, there's a change in tone that doesn't come across naturally. It's essentially one giant set piece that describes a day in Henry Hill's life, all that he must accomplish, and how he's going to go about doing it. Apparently, Scorsese was trying to portray the distracted, intensified mindset of someone strung out on cocaine, but at this point in the movie, Henry'd been on coke for a while and he'd never acted quite like that before. Scorsese's apparent intention is all well and good, but the sequence seemed inconsistent with the rest of the film.

I don't want to seem dismissive of GoodFellas, because I liked and enjoyed it. Unfortunately, I just didn't see the great film that I've heard about for so long. I'll watch more of Scorsese's work and see if other films of his have the same effect or if this is a somewhat isolated incident.

Oh, I've got a light . . .

Clint Eastwood is a god among men, man among boys, and, at 78, could still kick just about anyone's butt in 10 seconds flat. Ask most movie buffs who holds the title of greatest living American filmmaker, and most would pick Martin Scorsese. Since the passing of Robert Altman, it's hard to argue with that choice. However, I think Clint's on the shortlist, and, furthermore, might just be knocking on the door.

For the first time since 2004's Million Dollar Baby, Clint found a project he believed in enough to star in it. Previously, he'd said that he was done with acting and even turned down the lead in In the Valley of Elah, a role that Paul Haggis had written especially for him. (not to worry, Haggis had one heck of a backup plan) I went into Gran Torino with mid-level expectations, and came out blown away.

Clint is a rare breed of filmmaker and one that I think deserves to be considered an auteur. This distinction is one that is normally afforded a filmmaker with a well-defined visual and thematic style whose films are clearly recognizable as "theirs." That said, Clint Eastwood is probably not the first person who comes to mind when thinking about who is or isn't an auteur. From a visual standpoint, Clint's films are very naturalistic. I get the feeling that he could care less about impressing the audience with a nifty shot or camera trick. Instead, his focus is always on serving the story, which, I'd argue, is exactly where it should be. It's on these grounds that I really feel that he deserves the "auteur" label. In most cases, his films are small in scope in that they deal with only a few characters who are usually ordinary people. The real riches are in the emotional landscape he chooses to explore. I challenge you to find a Clint Eastwood film that doesn't feel like a Clint Eastwood film.

Gran Torino is no exception. I went into the film not expecting a great movie, and was completely surprised. I'd been interested in seeing it since seeing the first trailer, but felt that the material seemed formulaic and might come across on the corny side. My initial assumptions have some grounds, but, in large part, Gran Torino's strengths wipe out its weaknesses.

The film's single greatest strength is the performance of Clint Eastwood. I think he deserves serious consideration for an Academy Award nomination. It's one of the finer performances I've ever seen him give and one of the year's best. One of the things I like most about the film is the way it doesn't sugarcoat Walt Kowalski, the main character. He's a racist, pure and simple, and, to be honest, isn't a big fan of a lot of white folks either. It's refreshing to find a character like Walt who doesn't get sanitized and made politically correct. Then, when his perspective starts to shift, the changes are natural and feel as though they've been earned. This is unique, because a lot of films err in this area by trying for certain types of character development without building the character enough to sustain those changes. As a result, the changes feel false and clumsily tacked on. A lot of filmmakers would do well to watch this film and take notes . . .

Another of Clint's trademarks comes into play in Gran Torino to great effect: the sucker punch. He's a master of lulling the viewer into thinking that he/she's watching a certain type of film, creating a false sense of security, and then blindsiding him/her with a sudden shift in tone and thematic content. I wouldn't spoil it for the world, but there's a moment in Gran Torino that will almost take your breath away. It's perfectly set up by the film's humor, one of its unexpected strengths. I spent the first hour and a half laughing and enjoying myself (and enjoying my friend's reactions to Walt's behavior. Priceless.) and then after that moment occurs, I knew I wasn't in Kansas anymore and the stakes had just gotten monumentally higher.

As most people go through life, they mark different time periods by certain occasions. I've almost always marked my years by movies and I'd have to say that Clint Eastwood's made for some oustanding moments in my cinematic life. With Letters From Iwo Jima, I knew I'd seen one of the greatest films about war that I'd ever seen. With Million Dollar Baby, I knew my life had been changed by one of the greatest films I'd ever seen. Gran Torino doesn't quite get as high up, but I wouldn't worry, 'cause it gets a distinction of its own. It's just one of the year's best films.