Incredible, No, but Pretty Darn Good

Ever since seeing Ratatouille over the summer (one of the best movies I have ever seen), I've been wanting to see every Pixar movie I can get my hands on. This past Thursday, it was The Incredibles.

When reviewing Pixar films, it's not a question of good v. bad. The answer to that is implicit. Rather, it's more very good v. excellent. The Incredibles lies on the "very good" side of the spectrum.

The Incredibles has the same basic storyline of other Pixar films. The main character is unappreciated (Mr. Incredible, Remy the Rat, Woody...), becomes self-absorbed, and is recognized and humbled in the end.

The major problem I had with The Incredibles was that the main character was under appreciated and self-absorbed for too long. With Woody and Remy, I had sympathy. I looked past their self-absorption, and actively rooted for them. With Mr. Incredible, this wasn't the case. His self-absorbed phase went on for too long. He deceived his family and was a total jerk for nearly half the movie, and I couldn't look past this.

It's odd that I'm basing my critique of a computer animated film on whether or not I rooted for the main character. Yet, my rating is strictly based on how much I enjoyed the film, and my dislike for Mr. Incredible definitely impacted my overall enjoyment.

Nonetheless, The Incredibles was very good. Though I couldn't stand the main character, what made this movie stand out was the minor players--the costume designer, the insurance boss, Dash, and the mom. These were all remarkably crafted characters who only Pixar could make up. The music was also an excellent touch.

I know The Incredibles has quite an ardent following, and I don't want it to seem like I disliked like the movie. It was a very good film. All I mean to to say is that it's not going up on my Facebook profile, in the pantheon of great movies.

Correction: After an incredibly embarrassing Facebook exchange with an Incredibles aficionado I realized that the sons name is Dash not Flash. I have fixed the mistake and apologize.

Strange brew, eh?

In anticipation of upcoming fieldwork in Quebec, my advisor instructed me to watch "Strange Brew." A spoof of life in Canada, the movie is centered on a pair of brothers (played by Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas) who subsist on beer and jelly donuts. Not too shabby for a couple hosers, eh? But instead of critiquing the mediocre movie, let's explore the dialect of that Great White North.

Moranis's and Thomas's characters define the word hoser as "what you call your brother when your mother is in the room"--an all-purpose mild insult. Originally used to describe the poor Canadian prairie farmers of the 1930s who siphoned gasoline from the tractors of neighbors, the term hoser is a condensation of the word "hosehead." The word still carries some socioeconomic baggage. For example, if you're a big hoser, one of those flannel shirts hanging in the closet might be a dinner jacket. The expression also had significance in the pre-Zamboni world--losing ice hockey teams had to hose off the ice.

Another endemic Canadianism is that insignificant chortle dangling at the end of a stereotypical Canuck sentence pronounced "eh." Minnesotans have evolved to the point where a gentle lilt replaces the heavy-handed eh, but both affects are commonly rhetorical in nature, a sign of self-concurrence. The Canadian Oxford Dictionary defines eh as "ascertaining the comprehension, continued interest, agreement, etc., of the person or persons addressed." Unfortunately, the Quebecois aren't big eh enthusiasts. Maybe I'll pretend to be from Manitoba.

Another linguistic experiment I might run will involve liberal use of the the word tabernacle, in a thick French-Canadian accent, of course. A variety of religious words have taken on profane meanings in Quebec, with tabernacle being one of the more potent expressions. I'll start mild, possibly commenting "d'la bouffe en tabernacle," on how there is a lot of food. But I'm not even going to try joking about how Mozusse broke les tabernacles after drinking a little too much from la câlice. That'll get me hosed.

A Worthy Successor

My favorite movie of all time, Mouse Hunt, has found itself a worthy successor. Ratatouille plentifully plunders from the 1998 flick, but steals riches to share with the world.

Remy the rat is not your ordinary vermin. Gifted with a finely tuned nose, he cannot subsist on his rodent clan's diet of garbage. Remy thirsts for human cuisine. That is where he encounters trouble.

Overreaching into the pantries of a well-armed widow results in the eviction of Remy's family from her ceiling. A harrowing flight washes our protagonist into the sewers of Paris, separating Remy from his clan and plopping him right below the restaurant of Chef Auguste Gusteau.

Gusteau is a propenent of kitchen egalitarianism, that anyone can cook successfully if they let their imagination run free. Manifesting himself as a figment of Remy's imagination, the chef guides Remy through self-doubt into (literally) the toque blanche of a restaurant employee who is transformed by his tiny companion into an overnight sensation.

Before divulging any more of the movie, let me convince you to see it.

Ratatouille represents the best graphics Pixar has yet concocted. Every scene (and every mouse hair) is packed with high-resolution detail. JT and I are eager to rewatch it just to pick up side action in the cooking scenes.

The caricatures in this movie are exaggerated beyond all belief, almost to the point of reality. Anton Ego, the supreme Parisian food critic, sits hunched in a dark mahogany-panelled chamber clacking at his ancient typewriter, miniscule reading glasses perched at the end of his nose, revelling in the mortal hold (once again, quite literally--every hyperbole is reality in this movie) he commands over chefs. Ratatouille's portions are so small they almost evaporate; Gusteau is gargantuan to the point of a bean bag chair.

At times the plot feels contrived, but in a movie centered on anthropomorphic mice converging with the Parisian food scene, a few dei ex machina barely distort the story.

There is a subtle, likely unintentional, lesson to this movie. Of the rats, Remy is most comfortable with humans, and is the only one who pursues good food. This disturbs his father, who does not appreciate his son's ability except when it is used for sniffing out rat poison. Meanwhile, the clan scarfs down unidentifiable trash, sometimes ingesting poison as a result.

Most humans--to an extent, myself included--barely know or care what they are eating, including many of the atrociously unhealthy ingredients found in processed food. Thus, the United States faces an epidemic of obesity, especially glaring in children. This movie forces the viewer to see food as something that can be crafted into delicious artwork, not as fat and sugar laden fodder in the trough of humanity. In Ratatouille, rats represent a mirror of humankind, and Remy, the outcast of both sects, finds delight in a small portion of carefully constructed fare, not in heaps of processed garbage. Ideally, theater audiences will follow suit and buck the trend that has a microcosm in JT's beloved hot dog eating contest.

Slightly sweet, mostly bitter

Divine force guides the characters of Hoop Dreams, the 1994 documentary that follows the fates of two aspiring basketball players. By the end of the movie, you can foretell the futures of William Gates and Arthur Agee after their lives on screen.

The filmmakers initially find Gates and Agee as middle schoolers on the courts of south side Chicago. These talented ballplayers have been recruited to attend St. Joseph High School, a surburban, private Catholic school and basketball powerhouse. The overlord of St. Joe's basketball is Gene Pingatore, a Bobby Knight acolyte who propelled legendary point guard Isiah Thomas through the program and into the NBA. Thirsting to fill Thomas's shoes are Gates and Agee, and Pingatore yearns for a new star.

Fate takes over; Gates and Agee walk divergent paths. But the ghetto keeps them together. As much as they strive to overcome circumstance, adversity inhibits the fulfillment of their dreams. Many of the movie's surprises are startling because you expect the boys' lives to follow the Horatio Alger trajectory. Drugs, violence, abusive fathers--we think that hardworking dreamers don't succumb to the stereotypical problems everyone has heard of over and over, the problems that don't register except in the suburbanite's subconscious, as a 30 second clip on the local news.

When Gates and Agee triumph, we also rejoice, temporarily forgetting their insurmountable hurdles. But the slum always returns as a thicker and higher brick wall.

Hoop Dreams is hard to watch because the protagonists are controlled by unassailable forces. At the end of Gate's high school career, Coach Pingatore brashly comments, "One goes out the door, and another one comes in the door. That's what it's all about.'' As insensitive as the observation may be, we also remember how the ghetto invests its hopes in young hoopsters, how Gates's high school star turned minimum wage earning brother admits that he lives vicariously through his younger sibling. We witness Agee's mother trying to support three children on $280 per month, unable to pay the bills, living in dark except for the light of a portable lantern. There is no cure for the influence of a drug-dealing friend, or the non-support of a jailed or delinquent father, or public schooling that takes place in a de facto prison. Only miracles can redeem the protagonists, but miracles never happen in the ghetto.

As a revealing portrait of basketball and the crushing weight of urban poverty, I urge you to watch this masterpiece. And afterwords, I hope, you will have the inexorable desire to confirm your suspicions on where Gates and Agee have ended up today.

A Really Good Movie

Yesterday, I wrote about one of the worst movies I've seen in a long time--Fast Food Nation.

Today, I am going to write about one the best movies I've seen in a long time--Hoop Dreams.

Miller and I watched it last night and experienced the full spectrum of emotions. It was at times uplifting, depressing, and humorous. Though about basketball on the surface, it was more about the nearly insurmountable obstacles put in the way of inner-city youth.

The documentary follows the high school experiences of two Chicago boys--both with the dream of going to the NBA. I had the same dream when I was younger. However, for me the dream never became more than some far-off fantasy. For Arthur Agee and William Gates, the dream is the focal point of much of their early life.

This past Thursday, only 60 players were selected in the NBA draft. That's 60 out of thousands of college players, hundreds of thousands of rec. players. Yet, Arthur and William banked on going to the NBA. It was the only way they saw themselves leaving the inner-city and creating a better life for themselves and their family. Arthur and William are probably not unique in this respect. There are many other inner-city kids who put all their eggs in basketball. And if they're not one of the 60 athletes selected to the NBA, which is most likely the case, then back to the inner-city they go.

The movie explored the hypocrisy of the "student-athlete." The seeming impossibility of maintaining normal family life in the inner-city. The escape that sports can provide for the worst of situations. And the psychological effect of missing out on a dream and then attempting to live out that dream through someone else.

I can't guarantee that you'll feel all that great after watching this movie. It doesn't present the most uplifting view of things in America's cities. However, irregardless of this, you'll be glad that you watched it. It tells an extraordinary story.

A Really Bad Movie

A couple days ago Miller, I, and others decided to watch the bestseller turned movie Fast Food Nation.

When we first started it, I thought it was the movie about the guy who lived on fast food for a year. I was wrong. That's Supersize Me.

About ten minutes in, I thought it would be a powerful satire in the mold of Thank You For Smoking. Wrong again.

By about a half-hour in, I finally realized what type of movie it is. It is an awful movie, in the mold of Catwoman, The Dukes of Hazard, and Rocky Five.

The movie is sloooow, boring, and hopelessly unfocused. The producers of the film probably wanted me to be absolutely repulsed by fast food after watching it. However, my craving for fast food after watching this movie was just about as strong as after watching Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle.

I wanted to eat fast food to spite the people who made this horrible film.

The movie was stuck in an impossible position between comedy and drama. The basic plot was that there's sh**, spit, and even human body parts in the fast food Americans devour every day. The film bounced from one subplot to another. There were the illegal immigrants working in the meat packing factory. The hardworking teenager working at the fast food cash register. The hot-shot executive investigating the poop-filled meat.

It was extraordinary how every single scene in the movie went 20-30 seconds too long. All action in a scene would end and then the camera would just zoom in on nothing for half a minute.
I admittedly did not watch the whole movie. None of us did. We couldn't take it anymore. I'd probably rather knowingly eat sh** filled meat than have to sit through that entire movie.

Tonight, I plan on watching Hoop Dreams, which Roger Ebert ranked the best movie of the 1990s. I expect it to be a bit better than Fast Food Nation.

Finally a Good Movie

The most entertaining documentaries are those that could be mockumentaries if you didn't know otherwise. This is the case with Spellbound, a tale of eight logophiles who compete at the National Spelling Bee.

Christopher Guest could not have created a better cast of characters. There is the Machine, Neil Kadakia, whose multimillionaire father quizzes him on 8,000 words per day, hires Spanish and French tutors, and pays 1,000 Indians to pray for victory at the National Bee. There are the two minority underdogs--Ashley White, an African American from the projects of Washington, D.C., and Angela Arenivar, the daughter of an illegal immigrant farmhand who doesn't speak a word of English. There is the spaz, Harry Altman, whose nerdy hee-haw laughter, steroidally recounted jokes, and broad repertoire of facial contortions make him simultaneously lovable and beat-upable. There is the multitalented Indian, Nupur Lala, whose comparative blandness is supplemented by the three stooge-like geeks she barely bested at the regional spelling bee. There is Emily Stagg, the prep-school trained, New Haven dwelling polo player whose yuppiesque hyper-maturity is annoying on a middle schooler. There is Ted Brigham, the reclusive Missourian obsessed with weapons whose family raises peacocks and wears shirts adorned with the stars and bars. Finally, there is April DeGideo, a favorite of JT and mine, whose pessimism-driven self-motivation seems to transcend her parents' blue collar roots. A slew of scintillating minor characters adds further zest to this smorgasboard of personalities.

Spellbound not only documents unique members of disparate American communities but also the communities themselves. The racism of the South, the snobbery of the Northeast, the opulence of Orange County, the drear of the Rust Belt--all are succinctly captured in their most potent forms.

JT and I are not fans of the cinema. In fact, last night was the first time in living memory either of us had seen a good movie. It gives us hope that in the future, we will muster the money and courage to see another.