GET LOW
This wondrous, magical platinum finished film, with its ingenuity, elegant simplicity, creatively crafted cinematography, but primarily the wisdom and purity of its message,
spoke volumes in a whisper.
Loosely based upon a rough, tough, recluse with a linen-lined face and a laser sharp tongue, just barely existing in 1938; Felix “Bush” Breazeale residing with his constant companion, a beloved mule in rural Tennessee decides to be present at his own funeral gala; his curiosity lusting for the sermon his preacher will deliver over his decaying corpse! The idea is titillating and hilarious; everyone at times wants to know how they are spoken of when not present. Over twelve thousand showed up, greedily hoping to win the lottery; ultimately inheriting Bush’s property upon his actual death.
Aaron Schneider (2004, Academy Award for his short film “Two Soldiers”) at 40, has given birth to a masterpiece, five years in the gestation process, worth every minute of massive effort. This film does not have a false second, a moment of artifice; its’ intricately woven plot addresses the deepest, darkest, finest emotions a person can have; there is a well of passion, pain, purgatory and finally a redemption; the championing of a soul in the final round of life. Seared into memory is a man called Felix.
Felix, hypnotically played by Robert Duvall (at this point my choice for the Best Actor Award) is tortured to the point of oblivion; his pristine but sacred prison is a monument to his beloved secret; testimony to the brilliance of his performance, we do not pity his situation but have indomitable respect for his decision. Robert Duvall, with a lifetime of iconic roles has achieved a depth of such magnitude in this film, that it will be years before another “Felix” can test his or anyone else’s dramatic proficiencies.
Bill Murray, as the undertaker Frank Quinn, sinks his creative teeth into this unconventional, slyly alcoholic, wise but disillusioned man and imbues him with insurmountable dignity. Gone is the slap stick humor Mr. Murray is known for, replaced with an intellect and a quarry of knowledge that obviously years of desire and drilling went into its formation. An award winning display of his multitudinous talents.
Sissy Spacek as Maddie Darrow, is beautiful, insightful, kind and seasoned; she softens the harshness of the males, but her story is the cement that binds and holds the truth of Felix’s enforced confinement. Ms. Spacek is gifted and has always shown great discretion and astuteness in her role selections.
Lucas Black, as Buddy Robinson, Frank Quinn’s assistant is wonderful. He the perfect foil, conscience to Quinn’s acerbity and harsh realism; his youth, freshness, naivety and eventual growth added a touch of warmth, joy and humor to the evolving story.
This quiet, potent and vibrantly alive film left the audience knowing the truth and validity of the words, ‘you can’t help who you love”.
I could not help but love this film.
FOUR & 1/2 STARS!!!!
For Now…………Peneflix
Monday, August 30, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
EAT PRAY LOVE
EAT PRAY LOVE
(Enervating Painful Lifeless)
Being a firm advocate of capitalism I applauded the success of Elizabeth Gilbert’s novel, Eat Pray Love, a dull, narcissistic, rambling journey through the splendors of Rome, India and Bali; a quest for emotional enlightenment; a healing after a doomed marriage. This film reduces the viewer to paralyzing ennui; packed with useless drivel, thirty year old jokes, stale clichés, the ultimate boring display of “finding oneself”. Even the glories of the locations could not salvage the movie.
Julia Roberts, talented and beautiful, has reached the point where her persona is obfuscating and transcending her characters.
Special mention in the credits should be given to her dentist!
Only the male roles kept me from succumbing to jet lag and the tantalizing tug of the exit sign.
Billy Crudup, Stephen, the dumped husband; has an enchanting dance sequence, sadly far too brief.
James Franco, David, the gorgeous young actor, striving to tame the glum Liz.
Hadi Subiyanto, Ketut, a guru who could convert the most blackened spirits and obstinate souls.
Richard Jenkins (“The Visitor”) Richard, with tough love, is the catalyst for Liz’s spiritual catharsis.
Javier Bardem, Felipe, with insouciant charm, breaks the vitrine encapsulating her heart.
The performances of these men are the sole reason to bequeath this film……..
TWO STARS!!
For Now…………Peneflix
(Enervating Painful Lifeless)
Being a firm advocate of capitalism I applauded the success of Elizabeth Gilbert’s novel, Eat Pray Love, a dull, narcissistic, rambling journey through the splendors of Rome, India and Bali; a quest for emotional enlightenment; a healing after a doomed marriage. This film reduces the viewer to paralyzing ennui; packed with useless drivel, thirty year old jokes, stale clichés, the ultimate boring display of “finding oneself”. Even the glories of the locations could not salvage the movie.
Julia Roberts, talented and beautiful, has reached the point where her persona is obfuscating and transcending her characters.
Special mention in the credits should be given to her dentist!
Only the male roles kept me from succumbing to jet lag and the tantalizing tug of the exit sign.
Billy Crudup, Stephen, the dumped husband; has an enchanting dance sequence, sadly far too brief.
James Franco, David, the gorgeous young actor, striving to tame the glum Liz.
Hadi Subiyanto, Ketut, a guru who could convert the most blackened spirits and obstinate souls.
Richard Jenkins (“The Visitor”) Richard, with tough love, is the catalyst for Liz’s spiritual catharsis.
Javier Bardem, Felipe, with insouciant charm, breaks the vitrine encapsulating her heart.
The performances of these men are the sole reason to bequeath this film……..
TWO STARS!!
For Now…………Peneflix
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
A TOWN CALLED LEH: THE AFTERMATH OF THE APACALYPSE
A TOWN CALLED LEH: THE AFTERMATH OF THE APOCALYPSE
Imprisoned in the glorious splendor of the Himalayan Mountains, rests Leh, the capital of Ladakh, India. Its astounding beauty and tradition traces it roots to the third century BC; a hub of Buddhism and eventually a commercial Mecca of the Silk Route.
On Thursday, the 5th of August my guide and I arrived in what can only be described as awe inspiring; this ancient, historical and magnificent paradise, a symbol of the archaic and present; ubiquitous chortens (memorials) to the past Kings and Queens of Ladakh dotting the landscape, ranging from the sophistication and skill of master craftsmen to the modest talents of the unschooled; bazaars with sinuous, dark, scented corridors, snake for blocks through a labyrinth of wares: jewelry stores joined with butcher shops, spice venues married to shoemakers, working with tools long abandoned, replaced by modern technology, but proficient in attaining its goals. Those questing for the foreign, will be divinely saturated.
In the small hours of Friday, August 6th , disaster with Olympian magnitude struck this unsuspecting town; in seconds Zeus claimed the lives of hundreds, snuffed from existence, never to have another thought, never again to feel the ferocity of the summer’s sun, the frigidity of a winter’s moon, sentenced to oblivion, beyond knowing, beyond pain, beyond platitudes.
Homes, constructed of mud washed from their mountainous foundations, not a trace of their prior life left visible; claimed by the Indus River, destined to a watery grave; gone forever, praying not to be forgotten.
I believe that there is a karmic power, a reason why one is placed, at a determined moment in time in a preordained situation. My guide, Muneer Suri, rose to the challenge of the catastrophe and helped his friend Odpal George, save the bewildered and shocked survivors; mending bridges and gifted moral support so sorely craved.
My experience with the devastation of nature’s power over mankind has been softened by the media; the tsunami, Katrina, even the BP oil debacle, viewed in the protective custody and privacy of my home, rendered the horrors palatable; I could switch off the television, close the newspaper, turn a deaf ear to the radio and tackle the day as intended; never having to adjust my routine. In Leh, a cloud burst, altered my life; I left the confines of my electricity and internet deprived hotel and walked through the aftermath of the nightmare, without blinders I witnessed what the gods, especially Thor could accomplish at whim: homes topped with ruined cars, buses crushed to a fraction of their original size, bodies being pulled from dilapidated and unrecognizable structures. People with staggering dignity, scavenging through the detritus, for anything worthy of salvation. Wading knee deep in mud to photograph a child clutching a withered toy; that toy, more precious than any gemstone; a symbol of hope and life, the image crystallized in my consciousness, until the day I cease to be.
In conclusion, I shed tears over the myriad of shoes, all sizes, never a pair, but sculptural in their poignancy; these lovely, lonely shoes, reminiscent of the unknown feet, lost souls of their prior owners. There was a sacredness in their survival and I knew that as long as my feet tread the cosmos I had witnessed, with unprotected vision a profound and monumental tragedy, which added a depth of wisdom lacking, but now emblazoned, frozen in my heart and spirit, resting on a pedestal, never to be toppled from my mind; an ever present reminder to avoid shunning but perpetually grasp the enigmatic lessons of fate.
Penelope Steiner
Imprisoned in the glorious splendor of the Himalayan Mountains, rests Leh, the capital of Ladakh, India. Its astounding beauty and tradition traces it roots to the third century BC; a hub of Buddhism and eventually a commercial Mecca of the Silk Route.
On Thursday, the 5th of August my guide and I arrived in what can only be described as awe inspiring; this ancient, historical and magnificent paradise, a symbol of the archaic and present; ubiquitous chortens (memorials) to the past Kings and Queens of Ladakh dotting the landscape, ranging from the sophistication and skill of master craftsmen to the modest talents of the unschooled; bazaars with sinuous, dark, scented corridors, snake for blocks through a labyrinth of wares: jewelry stores joined with butcher shops, spice venues married to shoemakers, working with tools long abandoned, replaced by modern technology, but proficient in attaining its goals. Those questing for the foreign, will be divinely saturated.
In the small hours of Friday, August 6th , disaster with Olympian magnitude struck this unsuspecting town; in seconds Zeus claimed the lives of hundreds, snuffed from existence, never to have another thought, never again to feel the ferocity of the summer’s sun, the frigidity of a winter’s moon, sentenced to oblivion, beyond knowing, beyond pain, beyond platitudes.
Homes, constructed of mud washed from their mountainous foundations, not a trace of their prior life left visible; claimed by the Indus River, destined to a watery grave; gone forever, praying not to be forgotten.
I believe that there is a karmic power, a reason why one is placed, at a determined moment in time in a preordained situation. My guide, Muneer Suri, rose to the challenge of the catastrophe and helped his friend Odpal George, save the bewildered and shocked survivors; mending bridges and gifted moral support so sorely craved.
My experience with the devastation of nature’s power over mankind has been softened by the media; the tsunami, Katrina, even the BP oil debacle, viewed in the protective custody and privacy of my home, rendered the horrors palatable; I could switch off the television, close the newspaper, turn a deaf ear to the radio and tackle the day as intended; never having to adjust my routine. In Leh, a cloud burst, altered my life; I left the confines of my electricity and internet deprived hotel and walked through the aftermath of the nightmare, without blinders I witnessed what the gods, especially Thor could accomplish at whim: homes topped with ruined cars, buses crushed to a fraction of their original size, bodies being pulled from dilapidated and unrecognizable structures. People with staggering dignity, scavenging through the detritus, for anything worthy of salvation. Wading knee deep in mud to photograph a child clutching a withered toy; that toy, more precious than any gemstone; a symbol of hope and life, the image crystallized in my consciousness, until the day I cease to be.
In conclusion, I shed tears over the myriad of shoes, all sizes, never a pair, but sculptural in their poignancy; these lovely, lonely shoes, reminiscent of the unknown feet, lost souls of their prior owners. There was a sacredness in their survival and I knew that as long as my feet tread the cosmos I had witnessed, with unprotected vision a profound and monumental tragedy, which added a depth of wisdom lacking, but now emblazoned, frozen in my heart and spirit, resting on a pedestal, never to be toppled from my mind; an ever present reminder to avoid shunning but perpetually grasp the enigmatic lessons of fate.
Penelope Steiner
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