Category Archives: DVD
The Journey of A Lifetime: One Week, A Review
What would you do if you knew you only had one week to live?
By Maggie Tiojakin
Michael McGowan’s latest feature, titled—tada!—“One Week”, talks about last chances and roads not taken. First released at the Toronto Film Festival in September 2008, the film found its way in theatres across North America some time in March of the following year. It became an immediate box-office flop, one which Hollywood-fed audiences liked to recognize as “that Canadian movie with the guy from Dawson’s Creek in it.”
For those of you who are either too young or too old to remember Warner Brother’s popular teen drama, “Dawson’s Creek”, back in the late 90’s—it might be helpful to remind you that Joshua Jackson did not play Dawson in the series. No, no, he was better than that. He played Dawson’s sidekick-turned-nemesis named Pacey Witter, an angry teenager with a humorous take on life who was supposed to be part James Dean and part Jerry Lewis. Someone who can be funny and tragic at the same time, which, ironically, is something Jackson does very, very well.
But we’ll get to Jackson later. For now, let’s talk about “One Week”—a 94-minute road movie written and directed by the man who brought us “Saint Ralph” (2004) and “My Dog Vincent” (1998), Michael McGowan.
Throughout his filmmaking career, McGowan is known to be the kind of director who lingers on the aesthetics, screen shots that evoke poetry out of shapes and colors, as well as close-ups that reveal inner truths from his characters. Though, unlike his Hollywood contemporaries, McGowan is the kind of filmmaker who treads upon uncharted territories by way of staggering clichés.
“One Week” is a road movie suffused with road songs melancholy enough to bring anyone with an adventurous spirit to tears. It opens in a doctor’s office, where an elementary school English teacher as well as aspiring novelist, Ben Tyler (Joshua Jackson), receives news of a stage four cancer eating away at his body. The doctor gives him two years, at most. And the first thing that crosses Tyler’s mind is: he should call off the wedding.
Ben Tyler is engaged to a woman named Samantha Pierce, played by Liane Balaban, who manages to look bored and disinterested throughout the entire film. He comes from what seems to be a moderately happy family. And the only psychological scar he has to show is a rude remark from a fourth grade teacher who allegedly shot down his dream of ever going to Broadway to sing musical numbers from HMS Pinafore.
The rest of the film is navigated by Tyler’s cross-country trip as he reminisces back toward the life he had before, with Sam, with his family, with his students, with himself—and he is sick of them all. Each passing mile brings forth a new revelation, including a stay in a presidential suite in rural Alberta and an unprotected sex in the middle of a Canadian wilderness with a girl who likes to sing the national anthem in French. The next morning, Tyler wakes up invigorated, free, alive. Who wouldn’t?
However, just as it is with Tyler’s cancer, “One Week” fails to resonate in parts where it has the opportunity to kick us all out of our daze and straight into the rough realm of reality. Time is running. Dance like there’s no tomorrow. Live your life to the fullest. Instead of reeling from the illness, Jackson’s character is healthier than ever, save for the occasional bouts of sleepiness and vomitting from alcohol.
The movie, in turn, lingers and savors each pointless encounter until the audience is left buoyed by rolling hills and stretched horizons and open roads. It’s “Motorcycle Diaries” without the ideology of Che Guevara, “Wit” without the gut-pulling loneliness, and “My Life Without Me” without the heart-wrenching drama. It’s a movie not yet finished, whose 94-minute run hopefully promises extra extended scenes (on DVD) – and one where the use of clichés is as fundamental as it is detrimental.
Nevertheless, even if the film had been less than entertaining, tickets would have still sold well above average just because Joshua Jackson looks good in a leather jacket. He does, really. One might even think of him as the younger version of Hollywood magnet, George Clooney. The jaws, the brooding-humorous quality in their personas, not to mention their overall bad-boy appeal. Given the right publicist, Joshua Jackson will be tomorrow’s George Clooney. But first he needs to take advanced acting lessons.
The problem with actors who do well on TV isn’t so much that they are confined to specific roles, it is that they are often unable to take themselves out of the medium that had become, for a while, a part of their intrinsic built. And it doesn’t just happen to the less fortunate of the group, it happes to nearly ALL of them.
Look at the cast of Friends, Beverly Hills 90210, Melrose Place, or That 70’s Show. Save for a selected few—Jennifer Aniston, Ashton Kutcher, etc.—most of the actors are unable to graduate to the big screen, which explains why they often end up taking lead roles in independent (read: smaller) films.
Before “One Week”, other less-than-notable performances by Jackson include a list of movies that were produced straight to videos, such as “Americano” (with Harvey Keitel) and “Lone Star State of Mind” (with Donald Sutherland and Juliette Lewis).
Today, Jackson has returned to the familiar pattern of studio sets and grueling hours. “Fringe” is a sci-fi TV series birthed by J.J. Abrams, the co-creator of successful franchises like Felicity, Alias, and Lost.
Here, Jackson plays Peter Bishop, a genius with an IQ of 190 who likes to gamble. Again, he plays an angry character with a lot of potential and too much time on his hands. (Pacey, is that you?) At least, on “Fringe”, he makes better use of his time by solving cases that had once populated mainstream sci-fi series like X-Files, The Twilight Zone, and Buffy.
Wandering minds wonder, though, what would Peter Bishop’s answer be when asked what he would do if he knew he had only one week to live?
Unfortunately, one would never know. But what we do know, he wouldn’t have spent it watching “One Week”—though he might just buy the soundtrack, download it to his iPod, and take up a cross-country ride on his bike. Just like Ben Tyler.
Vrooom! Vrooom!
Copyright © 2010. Maggie Tiojakin. All rights reserved.
DVD: Personal Velocity (And Parker Posey!)
I saw ‘Personal Velocity’ for the first time some seven years ago, when it had a limited release in selected theatres across the United States. I even remember the day I had gone to see the film: it was the beginning of winter and the sun was already retreating from the sky at three-thirty in the afternoon. Fresh out of my American Drama class; I figured I could use some entertainment. So I went to the nearest theatre and treated myself to a movie and a warm bucket of popcorn.
To be frank, what I really wanted to see that day was another James Bond installment, ‘Die Another Day’, featuring Pierce Brosnan and Halle Berry—but as most James Bonds’ film releases go, this one was also packed to the last seats. Besides, I had already promised someone (a Bond fanatic) that I would see it with her. Therefore, between ‘The Quiet American’ and ‘The Emperor’s Club’—I chose ‘Personal Velocity’: simply because Parker Posey, whose performance in Nora Ephron’s ‘You’ve Got Mail’ (1997) I had thoroughly enjoyed, was playing one of the three female leads.
Written and Directed by Rebecca Miller, daughter of the legendary playwright, Arthur Miller, ‘Personal Velocity’ is the film adaptation of Ms. Miller’s prose works of the same title. Packaged in an economical duration of 86 minutes, the film captures a major turning point in the lives of three women: Delia, Greta, and Paula.
These portraits—though presented separately, both in style and setting—are like pieces of a mosaic art where each contributes a unique combination of color and pattern. And Ms. Miller’s prose is haunting, in the similar way that poetry—at its best—often reaches deep into the chambers of our hearts and retracts from them bits and pieces of an imperfect soul. In this way, Ms. Miller’s decision to have someone narrate to the audience the stories of her characters is by and large a nice complimentary, without which the unifying thread among the three stories may actually be lost and thus renders the film commonplace.
Seven years ago, upon leaving the theatre and walking the long way back to my apartment, the film left beautiful imprints in my head that consisted of, largely, photographic shots embedded in Ms. Miller’s masterpiece. Though the film setting was summer-ish, the way the images lingered and toned had winter splashed all over it. ‘Personal Velocity’ is a powerful film—because in itself it has perfected the craft where art imitates life: so much that after 86 minutes, you feel as though you’ve heard some friend tell you a story about his or her neighbor. Even better, each piece has the accomplishment of a short story that may as well have been written by Andre Dubus, Raymond Carver, or Alice Munro.
No doubt, ‘Personal Velocity’ puts Ms. Miller exactly where she belongs, in the revolving world of independent films that mostly deal with real-life drama—and who better formulate this than herself, the daughter of Arthur Miller, whose penchant for setting an American Drama has garnered him the reputation as one of the most important playwrights in the history of American theatre? (Think ‘The Crucible’, ‘Death of A Salesman’, and ‘All My Sons’) Though little of what she pursues afterwards prove to be as successful as ‘Personal Velocity’. Ms. Miller’s recent films include ‘The Ballad of Jack and Rose’, 2005, starring her husband, Daniel Day-Lewis; with the latest release titled ‘The Private Lives of Pippa Lee’, 2009, adapted from her novel of the same name.
Even so, I would recommend both ‘The Ballad of Jack and Rose’ and ‘The Private Lives of Pippa Lee’—only if you’re the kind of filmgoer who doesn’t mind length in speech and lull in thoughts. This is not to say her films are boring: but for someone whose list of must-see films consist of mostly action, horror or futuristic flicks—Ms. Miller’s work may be … painful to watch. And if you’re the kind of person who is able to find beauty in the midst of chaos: rent or buy ‘Personal Velocity’ now. If anything, you’ll get to watch the brilliance of Parker Posey’s performance as she portrays her neurotic character (Greta) slowly falling into the abyss of her own creation.
(OK, notice how I barely mentioned the two other leading stars—Kyra Sedgwick and Fairuza Balk? Well, um, I’m really using this note to pay a tribute to the Queen of Indie Films: Parker Posey! There, I said it: Ha-ha!)
Seriously, though, the film is very, very, very good. You’d love it.
PERSONAL VELOCITY Written and directed by Rebecca Miller, based on her book of short stories; director of photography, Ellen Kuras; edited by Sabine Hoffman; music by Michael Rohatyn; production designer, Judy Becker; produced by Lemore Syvan, Gary Winick and Alexis Alexanian; released by United Artists. Running time: 86 minutes. This film is rated R. WITH: John Ventimiglia (Narrator). Delia segment: Kyra Sedgwick (Delia) and Nicole Murphy (May Wurtzle). Greta segment: Parker Posey (Greta), Tim Guinee (Lee) and Ron Liebman (Avram). Paula segment: Fairuza Balk (Paula) and Seth Gilliam (Vincent).
DVD: Tokyo Sonata
Most of the time, I fail to understand Japanese films: and I have always believed that I owe it to the fact that my IQ and their IQ are on a different level altogether. There’s too much discrepancy. I can never measure up. So, when I do pick up a Japanese film, it is usually out of curiosity for the melancholic title, or out of respect and adoration for the Japanese-Taiwanese actor, Takeshi Kaneshiro. However, having Takeshi act a certain role doesn’t always help, either: and I always tell myself that it doesn’t matter what I do—I will never, and I mean, ever, measure up to the IQ level of the Japanese.
But then Departure, a 2008 film by Yojiro Takita, won the Academy Awards for Best Foreign Language Film. And I thought I’d give that one a try. The premise is quite interesting: a professional cellist goes back to his hometown and works as a make-up artist for the dead. Or something like that. I was certain, somehow, that I would be able to understand the sentiments relayed in that film. I imagined it would be a comedic ride from start to finish, with some dark humor smeared across the scenes, enough to get you to think about all the awful things in life, but too mild to leave you hanging at the end of the film. This is another thing about Japanese films: most of them leave you with a sense of hopelessness, as though—five minutes before the end credits roll—the director is handing you a rope to hang yourself with. Nevertheless, I didn’t get this sense from Departure, at least from the film synopsis and reviews I’ve read in countless online publications. I was left with the feeling that Departure is as much a film about extraordinary struggles in an ordinary life as any other indie films around the world. And I love, love, love indie films. The ones that make you think and reflect: the ones that tell you to go to hell if you ever complain and say that you are dealt the worst card in life, and therefore you, more than anyone else, deserve to be pitied. Essentially, the ones that give you (and those Hollywood blockbusters) the finger.
Yet by the time I got to the DVD store, the female clerk told me to check out another Japanese film I might like: Tokyo Sonata, also a 2008 film, directed by Kiyoshi Kurosawa. I didn’t think twice, and I bought them both. I loved the titles. I loved what the titles spoke to me. I don’t know why. But when I got home, I didn’t immediately pop them into the DVD player—I tossed them in a box full of unwatched DVDs. Those I bought based on instincts, to keep the quiet bugs away.
A year went by.
This morning, I had some time to kill. I was debating on whether it would be best for me to go straight to my desk and write, or for me to stimulate my brain by watching a depressing film. It’s strange: but depressing stories do stimulate my inner-writer. I wanted to start with Departure, but something about the cover turned me off. I was not in the mood to deal with dead bodies. Underneath that film, was a copy of Tokyo Sonata. The cover depicted a family scene at an empty dinner table, surrounded by whiteness, where all the family members sit and are trapped in their own worlds, disconnected from one another, detached from the world.
The film is exactly 120 minutes long. Two hours. It feels like a lifetime. In a good way, though. I didn’t fall in love with it, at least not the way I fell for Igby Goes Down, The Many Lives of Pippa Lee, A Raisin In The Sun, Thirteen, or We Don’t Live Here Anymore. Instead, what I felt for ‘Tokyo Sonata’ was entirely self-recriminating. It reminded me of two other movies that generated for me a similar sentiment: Closer, and Notes On A Scandal. They were both difficult to watch, but there is truth in each of them that kept me glued to the screen, to the characters, to the story. And the truth is … none of us is perfect, and in a way … we’re all bound to hurt one another—even when we mean well, or especially when we mean well.
‘Tokyo Sonata’ begins with a family and ends with a family. However, it begins with a normal portrait of a solid Japanese family—a hard-working husband, a restless teenager, a child prodigy, and a dutiful wife. It’s not a perfect family, but it’s a family you can root for—if you get to know it better. Right from the start, I had a sense that the family is too fragile, and that it would easily be fractured by a single blow. They are separate components drawn to a single dwelling—and there’s nothing to keep them together other than tradition, because they have to. Then, the husband loses his job, and therefore his pride as a husband, as the head of the household. This ignites several issues within the family, most of them related to the husband’s ego and pride. His ‘authority’—as he puts it.
“Screw your authority,” says the wife, when she finds out he’s been unemployed and taken his frustration onto the children. And he stands there, motionless, watching her go.
At some point, their eldest son, who decides to join America in a battle against terror, asks his mother: “Why don’t you get a divorce? You’re still OK, you know.”
And the mother says, “It’s not that easy. It’s complicated.”
At this juncture in the film, I felt drawn in to the wife’s character more than anyone else in the film. She is the only one holding the household together, trying not to fall apart, hopelessly expecting for things to go back to the way they once were.
“How wonderful would it be if my life thus far had been a dream,” she mutters inside a dilapidated shack next to a robber-slash-instant-lover who hours ago had threatened to kill her. “To wake up and realize I am somebody else. To start over.”
While, somewhere on a street curb, with his head against a pile of fallen leaves, the husband, dressed in an orange jumpsuit that is the uniform of janitors at the mall where he now works for $8.50 an hour, repeatedly chants: “I want to start over, I want to start over.”
Of course, I’m not doing the film any justice by writing this note. The scenes I’ve described here are too little compared to the rich layers of emotions embedded in the 2-hour run. The story flows beautifully, and—amidst the tragic unraveling of a fractured family—it keeps the audience guessing, believing, wanting for an end to the tragic events that seems to never come.
I suppose, what I like about ‘Tokyo Sonata’ is the fact that it has succeeded in depicting something so horrible and grotesque in the lives of a few individuals without so much as inserting a gruesome scene, or a lewd language, or an unnecessary hyperbole which other films are too easy to fall into.
At the end of the film, I stare at the screen for a long time: watching the end credits roll. Oddly, I don’t feel suicidal. I have just watched a family of good means and standing crumbles into pieces, and then have them pick up the pieces with as much resentment as there is hope for a better tomorrow. All I can think of, at the end of it, is how I too long to start over—and how I often think to myself that maybe it would be wonderful to wake up as somebody else.
“You’re the only one who can be you,” says the wife to the grieving robber-slash-instant-lover. “That’s all we have to hold on to.”
I’m not wild about befriending people who had had us at gunpoint, but there’s something generous and a bit of an escapist in the life of a dutiful wife who has wanted, needed, demanded nothing than a peaceful household since the day she got married. And then this happens, and she is forced to discover her individuality, her inner strength, the woman inside her that is neither a wife, nor a mother.
And that’s beautiful.
For once, I realize that it doesn’t matter if our IQ levels were at such a gaping discrepancy: in this life, we seem to be battling the same demons.
Tokyo Sonata
Directed by: Kiyoshi Kurosawa
Written by: Kiyoshi Kurosawa, Max Mannix, Sachiko Tanaka
Starring: Teruyuki Kagawa, Kyoko Koizumi, Yu Koyanagi, Inowaki Kai, Haruka Igawa, Kanji Tsuda, Koji Yakusho, Kazuya Kojima
Release Date: Japan, September 27 2008
Running time: 120 mins.
Budget: $2.5 million
