SCREENING LOG - 6/10--6/16, 2002

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I watched AMERICAN GIGOLO, THE FIFTH ELEMENT, CRAZY/BEAUTIFUL and THE MESSENGER: THE STORY OF JOAN OF ARC. In order of preference:

The Fifth Element (1997, Luc Besson)

Various contingents collide in a galactic battle to save Earth from a consuming planet of evil. A highly effective action film that is more aware of what it's doing than a good 90% of its ilk, and I'm sure that it was probably misread by those who couldn't (or wouldn't) get on Besson's wavelength. This is not to say that I think it ultimately transcends the genre -- the ending is no better or worse than the underwhelming spectacular climaxes of SPIDERMAN or AOTC but for the great middle stretch it was giving a good go at it. Once I saw Tiny Lister as the President I knew I wasn't in for your standard Hollywood movie but a wicked and often delicious approximation thereof. I was generally appreciative of the multicultural cast, which instantly was better than any of the STAR WARS movies' strained attempts to throw off Richard Pryor's famous observation that there are no black people in space -- though some of the stereotypes made me groan even if I knew they were being thrown in my face for the hell of it. I could have done without the last half hour which resorted to the mind-numbing guns and noises that plague many a summer at the cineplex. But that aside it was definitely more fun than the films it both aspires to and apes, and I enjoyed it more than Tim Burton's more overt attempt to send up the genre, MARS ATTACKS!

Crazy/Beautiful (2001, James Stockwell)

The delinquent daughter of a state senator hooks up with a hard-working but underprivileged Hispanic classmate. It's a testament to the staleness of the teen movie genre that while this film avoids some cliches and tries its best to inject a fresh breath of realism to the story, setting and largely nonprofessional cast, the overall result still seems lightweight and overly familiar. Like the senator who points at prominent Hispanics on his office wall, the film seems to use the Hispanic characters and community to provide surface credibility rather than exploring them for genuine insight. The central love affair between Kirsten Dunst and Jay Hernandez is well played, though Dunst's wardrobe, consisting exclusively of tanktops, obstructs our ability to take the story seriously: Dunsts' barely restrained upper torso literally gets in the way. On the whole, it plays like softcore for affirmative action-loving liberals and teenage boys with breast fetishes. (In all honesty, I have sympathy for both camps.)

American Gigolo (1980, Paul Schrader)

When a top-rated male hustler gets framed for murder, he discovers that the system in which he once thrived can destroy him without warning; with nowhere and no trick left to turn. Schrader's attempt to transplant Robert Bresson's PICKPOCKET into the seedy milieu of the Southern California hustler (played by Richard Gere in a tour de force of sexy emptiness worthy of Tom Cruise) actually comes off like a cross-breeding of Bressonian spiritual austerity with Douglas Sirk's irony-laden high trash melodrama -- and while the result is often horrifyingly inept, it does highlight what little is in common between the two filmmakers (deadpan delivery by actors whose roles play like the chesspieces of fate). I watched this as the final installment of GQ Magazine's "Films that Inspired Menswear" series (other films included were THE GRADUATE (selected by Tommy Hilfiger), THE GREAT GATSBY and THE ROYAL TENENBAUMS); apparently this is the film that put Giorgio Armani on the map and thus defined a look that dominated the 80s. Big freaking deal, the movie still blows, though it's fun as camp.

The Messenger: The Story of Joan of Arc (1999, Luc Besson)

Besson gives Saint Joan an unprecedented hi-action blockbuster treatment while managing to stay diligently faithful to much of the source text -- but nonetheless this joyless 2 1/2 hour recap doesn't manage to shed any fresh, coherent insights into the well-worn story. It feels like a good half of the dialogue is shouted rather than delivered, and the incessant busy-ness and bombast of both the director and his energetic but uncharismatic lead, Milla Jovovich, only drains from one's attempts to make something out of the noisy proceedings. Milla's petulant and self-important Joan left me with unanswered questions about why anyone of that or any period would want to follow her, but by the time she was roasted I stopped caring.

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