2009 Movies in Review

With so many year-end best-of lists demanding our attention, I thought FatScribe should also jump into the white noise of film criticism to provide one more (vapid?) voice evaluating the Top 20 films of 2009. (note: if you want to see how a pro does it, here's Roger Ebert's list.) So, here goes, my list of the best of the best for you, Dear Reader:

1. An Education -- This soon-to-be-classic film set in London stars Carey Mulligan as a school girl who falls for an older man (Peter Sarsgaard) and his charms and great taste in restaurants, music, and art. Education also stars Alfred Molina who should earn a best-supporting nom for his role as the coquettish girl's father. You'll love the soundtrack and the Edith Head-inspired wardrobes.

2. Star Trek -- "The Franchise" (as they call it over at Paramount) got a reboot from J.J. Abrams with a terrific script by writers Robert Orci and Alex Kurtzman. The story was taut and each of the new Spock's, Kirk's, and McCoy's performances were great. Almost $400million cume can't be wrong. Plus, Simon Pegg was in it, c'mon!

3. Fantastic Mr. Fox -- I'm always a sucker for Wes Anderson's latest offerings, and he's back with this adapted work from Roald Dahl's classic children's story. The stop-action film works for adults and kids alike, and it will be in our home collection for repeated viewings. George Clooney is great; I hope Wes's next project is live-action though.

4. In the Loop -- Amazing bit of film-making. Seriously. It is both hysterically funny and offensive (offensively hysterical?). For those of us that love public policy and the nasty, icky stuff called politics ("making sausage" never looked so pleasant thank you Mr. Bismarck), In the Loop is a must-see. Peter Capaldi and Tom Hollander (a FatScribe favorite) are terrific as British wonks who come to America to work the rooms in DC and the UN at the bidding of their Prime Minister's statecraft needs. One caveat: pound for pound, word for word, this script has more swearing per page than any I have ever read of seen.

5. A Serious Man -- The Coen Brothers are at it again. This film is a study of one Jewish man's world and examines if sleet or snow or crap storm of life will stop this serious man from his routine. Serious Man asks what a post-modern Job would do if faced with a cheating bitch of a wife and a borderline schizo brother (with a boil on his neck that never drains) routinely planted on his couch. Contretemps abound for this man, and the ending shot is just a gem.

6. Avatar -- This movie will go down as the most anticipated film of all time. It is a cinematic masterpiece that unfortunately is also coeval in its triteness and liberalness. James Cameron weaves a story of corporate (US military) bad guys who stumble headlong into a meta narrative replete with aboriginal innocents and a Gaea-Oedipus complex so profound it tries one's credulity. But ... the stunning visuals. The seamless motion-capture technology. The wonderful acting. My 12 yr-old leaned over to me during the show and said, "Dad, this is the most amazing film I've ever seen." I will see this again, but this time in 3-D IMAX. $800million box office and counting. Update: Avatar is the fastest film to hit $1billion (17 days). Only Cameron's Titanic can hold it back currently sitting at around $1.84billion box office.

7. Broken Embraces -- Pedro Almodovar is a stud. A gay stud to be sure, but a stud, auteur filmmaker nonetheless who just happens to love breasts. He has a thing for Penelope Cruz (and her breasts), and she shines in this movie like never before. Broken Embraces is three movies rolled into one giant carne asada burrito of a film. It's a film about a film being made, while also being documented by a jealous husband's son. It is certainly complicated (muy complicado), and in Spanish with subtitles to-boot, but if you love film as I do, this is one for the cineaste in all of us.

8. Bright Star -- Technically I have four foreign films represented here in my Top-10 if you include Dahl's Fantastic Mr. Fox. I just can't help myself, I am a film snob after all (as many of my friends will attest). This Jane Campion film is about John Keats and his (very) slow death by consumption and his one great muse. Abbie Cornish plays Keats's muse, and is another fine example of an Aussie actor that chews up the scenery with her most excellent chops.

"Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a  sweet unrest ..."

Almost sounds like an Almodovar dialog for Penelope Cruz, but alas, no, that bit of verse was Keats himself from his poem, "Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast."

9. Where the Wild Things Are -- This one is for my kids. I felt this movie was a bit too dark, but then again, the book wasn't the most sanguine either. At Johnny Rocket's eating a cheeseburger after viewing Wild Things, I asked the boys if they were moved by the movie. They both admitted that they cried several times during the intense moments. I love my boys for their honesty and honest emotions.

10. The Hangover -- Funny. Crass. Well-shot. The Director of Photography, Lawrence Sher (Dan in Real Life), did a terrific job here. He took what is typically handled with barely-a-care forethought for this genre, and lit each shot commensurate with a film of a much deeper storyline. The actors are great, and there is one scene where the dentist of the friends (The Daily Show and The Office regular, Ed Helms) wakes up and walks four feet before sitting down again. It was so painful to watch because it is just spot-on and reminded me of one all-nighter I had in South Beach that lasted 5 days. I laugh every time I see it. OMG! Forgot to mention: the raunchy B-roll shown in the ending credits does not receive the "Family Seal of Approval" nor my endorsement!! You have been warned. Todd Phillips (who also directed Road Trip, one film that had me laughing from beginning to end) just nailed this one, the highest-grossing R-rated film of all-time at almost $500million.

Honorable Mention

Me and Orson Welles -- Almost in the Top 10, but just shy. Never thought I'd ever write these words, but Zac Efron can act. Christian McKay channels Orson Welles scary good. I loved Citizen Kane (probably my no. 1 all-time greatest movie; right up there with It's a Wonderful Life), and this movie is set about 4-5 years before Citizen Kane was made. Richard Linklater (Dazed and Confused, Before Sunrise) handles this period piece with a deft touch and a sack full of love. Me and Orson highlights the behind-the-scenes shenanigans of Mercury Theater's newest play Caesar. It reminded me of My Favorite Year quite a bit.

District 9 -- If you haven't seen this movie, do yourself a favor and rent it. It rocked when I saw it the first time, and the second and third times I saw it dragging friends to see it with me. It is very violent, but so original (which is sorely lacking in Hollywood these days, the originality, not the violence) that it receives my imprimatur regardless.

9 (not Nine) -- This post-apocalyptic animated film was perfect for my two sons (12 and 9). They both were frightened and thrilled with the action sequences. It works on many levels, and the animation is fantastic. Worth it.

Extract -- Mike Judge wrote and directed this wonderfully dark comedy about the business world in the form of a business owner (Jason Bateman) who sets in motion the machinations that possibly end his marriage and his burgeoning business in one fell swoop. This is one film with Ben Affleck (since Good Will Hunting) that I didn't want to walk out on.

It's Complicated -- Alec Baldwin and Meryl Streep. Need I say more? But, I will. It's not great filmmaking, but it works for me. Shot in Santa Barbara, where everyone is rich with a cool job that they love, driving their hip cars, and all their kids are smart and off to very good colleges. This Nancy Meyers (Something's Gotta Give) film has her requisite production design quality on display, evincing homes that we all want to live in, framed with perfectly-aged actors acting their wonderful ages for all of us to finally realize it's okay to be paunchy, middle-aged, and beautiful. Like I said, a fun bit of celluloid escapism for the afternoon.

Inglourious Basterds -- Not my favorite director, but Quentin Tarantino can make a movie. It's historicism at its finest (a la Oliver Stone), where Tarantino imagines the "real" facts behind WWII and a band of Nazi-killing G.I. brothers.

A Single Man -- Will probably win an Oscar for something. Director Tom Ford has a terrific eye, and we can expect him to develop into a fine filmmaker if he wants it.

Hurt Locker -- Will probably win an Oscar for best-picture, but it's not my choice. Tension-filled film that has powerful performances as brought out by director Kathryn Bigelow. She's made a good one here.

Think I left one or more off of the list? I purposely left off two spots for your choices, Dear Reader ... leave us your pithy comments for 2009 films that should have been listed supra!

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L.A. Rain

rain.

standing outside your car, maxwell playing on the stereo, doors open, arms up, and rain on your long eyelashes. sumthin' sumthin' lashes reaching touching

us.

sorry is not your word, moving on is your world, not looking back, save for that once upon a time story i see in your eyes. something of what could have

been.

still see you, still see us, at the museo de espana, arms up, dancing those sevillanas, around a forgotten reflection in the plaza pool. listening to

sam cooke.

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1979 ... The Summer Between

Languid onshore breezes are blowing this afternoon here in Los Angeles. The palm trees, some 100 feet tall, grow with a certain katana blade shape because of these winds. As sometimes happens on windy days, I think back to earlier childhood times. It's the rustling of the wind in the fronds that sort of lulls me to daydreaming, and remembering, and ignoring the article I'm supposed to write (for JustLuxe.com); the one that sits on my desk, mocking me, waiting for another ham-fisted attempt by yours truly. What shook loose from the palm trees today, though, was a memory from 30 years ago. The summer of 1979 was an odd and ungainly one, transformative for me and my friends in a lot of ways.

This was the summer going from jr. high to high school. When bodies became long and thin, and parents worried a bit more about where you were, what you were doing, and more importantly, whom you were with. This was the summer/era of going from disco to punk, Carter to Reagan, from boyhood to wanting manhood. From innocent indolence to focused fury of pubescence.

Most of the time during the summer of 1979 I worried about being "big" enough to play football (my dad said I wasn't allowed to play b/c he thought I was too small. I can actually remember exactly where we were as I teared-up silently, staring out our Cutlass Olds). My core friends didn't play football, so I didn't perseverate on the topic too long because they wouldn't hear of it anyway. I was able to participate in the other things we were doing that summer -- like playing poker late into the night; camping out in backyards; swimming in pools and at the beach; joy-riding on my brother's Ducatti when my parents were in Europe; sneaking out and riding skateboards at 2am when my parents were sleeping in their room upstairs above mine -- and decided to let my body determine on its own if I was going to be able to make the team (which I finally would, thank God).

A huge pastime, obsession, constant reminder for us, as one could imagine, was girls. Just about anything to do with girls was on our minds: our best friend's sisters, their moms, the lady who gave out cookie samples at Von's Grocery, the Farah Fawcett poster (RIP -- the actress not the poster). We had several very mature freshman/sophomores who (unfortunately for them and fortunate for us) weren't old enough to drive and so had to stick around our neighborhood in the canyon that led to Malibu, nestled in the Santa Monica Mountains like a kitten in the crook of an avacado green couch.

One of the girls who received our affection and attention was the niece of a legendary rock band drummer (who would die the next year, as all rock drummers seemed to be doing back then). She had a sizable German Shepherd who needed to be walked every day, twice a day, on account of the rather sizable "her-shitza-poopoos" (as they say in doggie German) that her mom was getting tired of cleaning up.

Ms. Barbie, with her shock of auburn hair, would walk that dog up and around the hilly streets of our tract, and the half-dozen of us boys reported on her whereabouts as regular militia spying on enemy troop movements. Whether we were playing football, shooting hoops, riding our skateboards up the 10 ft ramp we built at the end of the cul-de-sac, or just sitting on the wall next to the pomegranate tree eating our purloined fruit, when she would sashay by, we would think up any excuse to make small talk with her. We even tried try to shake her hand with our purple stained fingers, and she'd just sort of laugh at us. Now that we were all good and embarrassed, she'd keep walking, telling her dog jokingly, "watch 'em!" Looking back to 1979, that was not a bad way for a matriculating 8th grader to spend a summer.

The other girl was Tammy. Tammy looked 23. When you're 13, and somebody looks 23 ... well, let's just say nobody ever talked to Tammy. Not even the next year when she became a water girl for the football teams. Tammy was TNT, nitroglycerin, and C4 all rolled into one sophomore ordinance shell. She was rarely around because the junior and seniors routinely picked her up to go to the beach. She'd wave, though. Just sort of smile, shake her blond hair, and flick her fingers in our direction. Either she was waving, or something was stuck on her finger. I think she liked being noticed, and was probably waving to us, even if it was a silent soliloquy of "so long, suckers." And we were. Suckers. For her and for Ms. Barbie.

1979 was the year that "Magic" Johnson won the NCAA basketball championship (and was coming to L.A. to start showtime) and John "the Duke" Wayne passed away. That year, 1979 and thereabouts, was weird because there was a couple of serial killers on the loose in Southern California. One was targeting women, and the other young boys. The police found the body of one 14 or 15 yr-old boy in a dumpster at the end of the street by where we rode our skateboards. I can't remember exactly the order of these events, but it happened something like this, I swear. We (3 or 4 of us) were riding in an old abandoned skatepark near the 101 fwy, and a creepster dude stopped his VW van and asked if he could take some pictures. Nick (who looked like Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Chili Peppers) said "sure" and proceeded to take his shirt off like a total a-hole and ride around one of the bowls (looks like an empty swimming pool) working up a good lather of sweat. Greg and myself (and I think my little brother) immediately got out of the bowl and told Nick to "Come on, dude! We gotta go!!" Nick, thank God, eventually got out and came over to where the rest of us were standing with disbelief on our faces. We then ran like hell to get back home, thinking we saw that VW van at every turn and corner. That night I happened to tell my friend John about the creepy-creep; his dad (unbeknownst to me) happened to be on a special California task force looking for this serial killer of young boys. Before the next morning, every kid at that old skatepark had been interviewed by the task force, the vehicle identified, and the creepster photog taken in for questioning.

Turns out he wasn't the guy, but, thank God, they did manage to catch the guy. He was convicted and became one of the first murderers to be put-down by the renewed death penalty in California.

That summer was also noticeable for the slow, yet rhythmic death of disco (you could dance to it). People were actually spray painting "disco" with an exclamation on the bottom of stop signs, reading "STOP disco!" Music is such an important conduit for transporting us back to those sepia memories of our youth. I actually like certain disco again, e.g., KC and the Sunshine Band ("party hand" in the air, y'all!). That summer of 1979 also showed the remarkable growth of punk. Man, did I love the music of the late 70's and early 80's: The Ramones, The Police, Devo, The Buggles, The Talking Heads, The Cars, X, AC/DC, Aerosmith, and Steely Dan.

Those awkward moments of junior high were about to become awkward years in high school. When the Ayatollah would toss out a Shah, and an actor would toss out a peanut farmer from the presidency. When the West would begin to face the challenge of radical Islam. The times were changing with Disco, the "Duke," and avocado green and burnt orange interior design colors all passing their stale dates. KROQ was becoming cool, yuppies were being born like litters of puppies, and interest rates were starting to come back down to earth. Everything was old, yet it all was new, too. Good ole 1979.

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One Man's Illicit Penumbra is Another's ...

I noticed right away her standing in the corner of the restaurant bar. She was with a cadre of admirers, mostly local surfers and cool consultant MBA types from Pepperdine who were working for hip (and over-hyped) Internet companies. Her ex-boyfriend (whom I suspected of actually being her current beau) was playing pool in the next room with a sniper's view of what she was doing. She said she would expect me, but only half-believed that I would show up. I don't know why I did. I didn't know why I was doing a lot of things that year.

Malibu and the South Bay have a lot of nouveau riche restaurants that are as expensive as their names are pretentious. Then there are the sushi, wine bars, Tex-Mex (those Texicans make good eats) and Thai numbers that are really quite good and reasonably priced. I was broke (even the local hobos had a net-worth greater than mine) and I was bummed: the perfect alchemy for a nasty case of depression. No money and nothing to distract you from your misery. What could make that killer combo worse? How about going for the trifecta and dating someone that works for you and is 14 years your junior. Gawd, was I feeling old. Just a few klicks on the south side of 40, and now with this "dick move" that I was about to make, I was truly on my way to becoming a cliche in his late-thirties.

If you're depressed, out of work, in relationship hell, do not pig pile onto your misery by having strong drink. You are writing yourself a prescription to make bad decisions. What's our baseline here for measuring bad decisions? How about this for our evening's barometer: Drinking and driving? (we're clearly at dumb.) Getting into a bar fight? (moving onto bad now.) Inviting a beautiful family friend to a nice sushi dinner when you know you might end up "running into" and then making-out with a 24 yr-old consultant, who works with your division, in the bathroom? (Ding-ding-ding. we've arrived at TDM -- total dick move.) Throw the entire hodge podge into the works and you have my night from bad decision hell.

But -- and here's the nasty, ugly, and profound truth of it all -- when your life is suckey, and fate is pissing bucket fulls of ouch and woe's me onto your head, you sometimes feel that you're owed and entitled to a good time, darn it. That little man in your pants (or your purse, or your hat-box, or wherever it is you keep your id) who sits on your shoulder from time to time in his little red devil costume with the bifurcated tail, shouts into your ear, "You need to buy another $150 round of drinks for all these people -- the ones you don't know and will never see again." Or he tugs on your elongated lobe on the other side and whispers, "The "W" is the coolest hotel in L.A., and you're supposed to flirt and jest and wear the nearest lamp shade as soon as is humanly possible. You're a recent divorcee; act like it, J.G.!"

Your intoxicated syllogism slots itself into your dome thusly: If I'm miserable I am owed this good time, and the little man with the pitch fork is encouraging me, and if the beautiful babies are laughing at my jokes, and if my car goes 100 mph at 2am with the windows down, then yes I will have one for the road and drop off my oldest and dearest friend at her hotel and then drive back to the newest and vapid 24 year-old's condo at 3am because she tucked her address into my pocket and her tongue into my ear whilst we were waiting in the bathroom line at the sushi house overlooking the Pacific. There, you now have your second profound truth (I'm feedin' ya pearls here, Franky! Pearls!) or at least well-worn maxim for this piece: Misery loves company. I wanted her company, and I found out that she was miserable and alone and wanted mine (that is to say, my company), as shocking as that sounds.

This went on for about three months, the misery and the wanting and the intoxicated logic and logistics. We ate out and drank Starbucks every morning on the way to work like an old married couple, and went clubbing vis-a-vis my quickly depleting funds like two college kids thrice nights weekly. She watched me play the court jester and I watched her smoke like a European model and we hung out with those with much trendier wardrobes than mine. We went to Laker games in VIP style. She was hit-on/insulted by Ozzy Osbourne at The Ivy, "Ooh, Sharon, look at that lil' strumpet!" I was sleeping less than 4 hours per night, and frankly because I had a bit more training at this frenetic pace than she, I held my own for about a month or two. And then like every marathoner knows (I am somewhat familiar with this because I've seen the Olympics on television), you hit the mother of all walls that only the most skilled can work through the pain and the nagging little voice that says, "What the hell have you been doing with your life, you stupid miserable bunghole, poor excuse for a man!?!" Yes, the wall talks to you and hurls insults at your drunken visage resplendent in 20-something hottie vigor, because the better part of your senses has been squandered like a biblical bowl of porridge sold off to a hairy, red-headed twin.

By the end of our supposed romance, I had given her: 17 of my favorite dvd's that I doubt she appreciated; a yellow Waterman fountain pen that she would lose and I would steal back; one lame arse trip to a lingerie shop; and one piercing on her left nostril by an "artist" named Rimshot (I kid you not). I regret a lot of this time in my life, but, not the learning (I'm all about the acquisition of wisdom, dear reader). Sure, I was embarrassed by hanging out with someone so young, but not half as embarrassed as she must have been being seen with one so mediocre and, gulp, fast approaching middle-age. Yet, no one even knew we dated; it was all on the "DL" as the kids say these days. For a bit I thought, "So this is how Bruce Willis must feel?" ... or at least Seth Rogen. And, now I just sort of cringe at how I behaved. Our time together floats in my memory like an illicit penumbra for one summer's sunset and then faded off into the surf like an old man looking for his dog Lucky that died 10 years earlier.

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