The Last of the Mohicans

The Last of the Mohicans


This Dork Reporter is a longtime fan of director Michael Mann, counting Heat, The Insider, and Collateral among his favorite films. But I still can’t find much love for what is probably his most popular movie, The Last of the Mohicans, which seems to lack his typically intense focus and clarity. Based on the James Fenimore Cooper novel, it falls prey to the sometime fate of literary adaptations: failure to capture a narrative too big to fit into feature film length. It’s not until the long chase sequence where it truly becomes a movie, and Mann engages his superlative skills in exploring character through elaborately staged action, as he did even more so with the extraordinary downtown L.A. shootout in Heat.

The Last of the MohicansPlease don’t call me Natty Bumppo

The most interesting thing about The Last of the Mohicans is that the apparent star Daniel Day-Lewis is not actually the title character or the focus of the story. Hawkeye possesses many names (born Nathaniel Poe and also known as Natty Bumppo), but one of them is not the title of the novel or film. If I’m not mistaken, Chingachgook (Russell Means) doesn’t speak a word until the very end, which also happens to be the end of his people.

The Last of the MohicansWhatever happened to Madeline Stowe?

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Glengarry Glen Ross

Glengarry Glen Ross movie poster


For better or for worse, Glengarry Glen Ross is very pointedly set in a world of men. I believe only one woman so much as appears in the background of one scene. It’s no accident, oversight, or deliberate act of Hollywood misogyny to banish women from this 24-hour slice of the lives of five bottom-rung salesmen.

Glengarry Glen Ross is full of grand, showboating performances from a dream cast of male master actors Al Pacino, Jack Lemmon, Alec Baldwin, Alan Arkin, Ed Harris, Kevin Spacey, and Jonathan Pryce. Baldwin very nearly steals the entire movie with a hilariously aggressive motivational monologue: “What’s my name? ‘Fuck you,’ that’s my name.” It’s all the more extraordinary that Pryce, sometimes guilty of outrageously affected accents and scenery-consumption, masterfully underplays his part as a shy, passive man who can barely speak, let alone assert himself against predator Ricky Roma (Pacino).

Kevin Spacey and Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glen RossAll together now: “What’s my name? …”

The screenplay by David Mamet, expanded from his own stage play, set a high standard for gloriously poetic profanity not to be surpassed until David Milch’s series Deadwood. Famous for his naturalistic dialog (every “um,” “uh,” and stutter is right there on the page; there is no improvisation), Mamet is also a meticulous craftsman of mystery and suspense. But there is one plot detail that trips me up on each viewing: the morning after the sales office is robbed, Shelley Levene (Lemmon) brags about having pulled off an impressive sale of eight units of sketchy property. Roma’s ears prick up at his mention of the signing having been just that morning, obviously sensing something fishy about Levene’s claim. But the time of closure is not inconsistent with Levene’s story, nor is there any reason to suspect that Levene, whatever else he may be guilty of, falsified this particular sale in any way. Roma may simply be surprised that the lately taciturn and ineffectual salesman Levene could not have pulled off such a feat at such an unlikely time unless his spirits were buoyed somehow. Still, Roma demonstrates perhaps the film’s only act of kindness by being the only one to give the old master one last chance to swap victorious war stories.

Kevin Spacey and Jack Lemmon in Glengarry Glen RossShelley “The Machine” Levene wants to make a deal

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O Lucky Man!

O Lucky Man!


Over the course of its truly epic length of 177 minutes, Lindsay Anderson‘s O Lucky Man! (1973) picks up the continuing saga of Mick Travis (Malcolm McDowell) from If… (1968; read The Dork Report Review). While If…. used a British public school as a metaphorical microcosm with which to satirize British class culture, O Lucky Man! widens its lens to take in all of England for its bleak portrait of capitalism triumphant. Travis appears to have matured out of his schoolboy fantasy of perpetrating a school massacre and has since joined the corporate world. Because of McDowell’s inherently impish persona, one might not expect his character here to be sincere, but Travis is now ruthless and genuinely willing to endure anything to climb the ladder of profit and social advancement. Early on, he is urged by a senior colleague to “try not to die like a dog,” but it’s a warning he is never equipped to quite comprehend.

O Lucky Man!When do we live?

His journey is so long and involved that it would hardly count as a spoiler to recount it here: Travis is promoted from the lowest rung on the corporate ladder all the way up to a high-level mission set up to fail. As he is ordered around the English countryside by his officebound superiors, he becomes lost on the way to Scotland, is arrested and tortured by the army, survives a military strike by an unseen enemy, stumbles into an idyll, is nursed back to health (er, literally), donates his body to medical research, falls in with Alan Price‘s touring band (including groupie Patricia (Helen Mirren)), talks his way into the employ of the most venal businessman in England after his previous assistant’s timely suicide (a prime example of Travis’ alleged “luck”), becomes party to illegal chemical weapons sales in a corporate-funded civil war in a third-world nation, takes the fall for his boss, is imprisoned to five years of hard labor, is evidently reformed, tries and fails to talk a poor woman out of suicide with a hilarious litany of trite platitudes, is robbed and becomes homeless, tries to proselytize like Jesus and is, finally and fittingly, stoned by his peers. But in the the end, he is discovered as a future movie star.

O Lucky Man!So long and thanks for the milk

An early form of David Sherwin’s script was written by McDowell himself, based on his own experiences as a coffee salesman. I think it’s fair to presume that the beginning and ending are drawn directly from McDowell’s life story. At opposite ends of the film, the fortunate Travis is chosen from the masses for higher callings. The young man at the beginning is all too eager to commence his journey, but the beaten-down and disillusioned man at the end is no longer able to take any pleasure out of his unlucky luck.

Must read: everything you could possibly want to know about O Lucky Man, from

Official movie site:

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King Crimson live at The Nokia Theater, Times Square, New York City, August 16, 2008


King Crimson is my favorite band.

There, I said it. The more music and films I’m exposed to, the more pointless it seems to pick favorites. (Isn’t it kind of absurd to say that King Crimson is “better” than, say, The Mahavishnu Orchestra? While I’m on this parenthetical tangent, has anybody else ever noticed the similarities between John McLaughlin’s jazz fusion group and the 1972-74 “Larks Tongues” incarnation of King Crimson?) Time and again on The Dork Report, I feel silly enough trying to condense my opinions about movies and concerts into a five-star rating template, and now even more so that I’ve seen Crimson blow the top off my scale (just like the back cover to the album Red). So, yes, they’ve earned a rare Dork Report 5-star review, an honor I hope the Crims appreciate (yes, I’m kidding).

I absolutely enjoyed Thursday’s show at The Nokia Theatre in Times Square, New York City, as I hope was clear from my review. I wasn’t there on Friday, but Saturday night’s was something else altogether, an extraordinary performance that rivalled the best of Crimson that I’ve heard on record, be it live (without question B’Boom – Live in Argentina) or studio (that would be Thrak – I invite readers to counter-argue in the comments below). So much so that my reluctance to play favorites is temporarily on hold; King Crimson is finally, officially, My Favorite Band.

King Crimson live at The Nokia Theater, Times Square, New York City, August 16, 2008Bending the “No Photography” rule, Part II

So who’s going to give credence to the biased opinions of an acolyte predisposed to positively rave about his heroes? In defense, I certainly don’t think they can do no wrong; I am prepared to declare their 1971 album Lizard an almost unlistenable piece of crap. But I hope that I can convey some of what made last night’s show an order of magnitude “better” than Thursday. The band was incredibly tight, hopefully putting to rest fans’ often-expressed fears that they have been a bit sloppy across this tour (a gripe I indulged in myself in my Thursday review). The crowd seemed more appreciatively rowdy and keyed-up than before; indeed the overall energy level was high. Perhaps it was just my different vantage point (slightly further back, and almost perfectly centered), but even the venue’s sound quality seemed better; I didn’t have the impression that Fripp and Belew were fighting to find the few audible frequencies left untrammeled by Harrison, Mastelotto, and Levin. The video cameras were turned off this time, being something of a tradeoff. On one hand, the flat panel TV screens scattered about the venue had made it possible to see all sorts of details invisible to the nosebleed seats on Thursday, but on the other hand, the glowing screens were distracting intrusions to my peripheral vision. But more likely, the band probably objected to the intrusion upon their performance.

The show began with a real treat not part of Thursday’s New York debut; when I walked in at about 7:30, Robert Fripp was already on stage performing Soundscapes. For the uninitiated, Soundscaping is Fripp’s term for the ambient, looping class of his solo work, originally christened (tongue-in-cheek) Frippertronics during his original 1970s collaborations with Brian Eno. When I saw Fripp live with The League of Crafty Guitarists at the New York Society for Ethical Culture in November 2007, it was clear from the general audience chatter around me that some were unaware that Fripp ever played anything other than burning, shredding rock guitar. So I wasn’t sure how much of this audience would be open to this avenue of Fripp’s work, but there was enough applause at the end of each piece to indicate that people were listening and appreciative. It helped that these particular Soundscapes were of the more beautiful and melodic variety, as opposed to the dissonant and nightmarish sort heard on the album Radiophonics. It was a rather low-key opener, certainly in comparison to the supremely fun California Guitar Trio that toured with Crimson in 1995.

For this Dork Reporter’s ears, the highlight of the evening was a shocking new arrangement of Sleepless. It was a wild, more ominously threatening reinterpretation of the slightly poppy original. Mastelotto and Harrison kicked it off with some utterly insane dumming (which I mean as a compliment), soon joined by Levin rocking the famous bassline to roaring approval from the crowd. Levin used his famous invention the funk fingers instead of the original slapping technique I’ve seen on the live DVD Neil and Jack and Me. Does anyone know if he also used the funk fingers for it in the 1990s, as heard on the live album B’Boom? It seems they had long since dropped the song from the setlist by the time I saw them in Philadelphia.

I’ve got to devote a least a paragraph to Mastelotto’s shout-outs to his predecessors. During Neurotica, he resurrected a sample of the little electronic “tink!” sound Bill Bruford scattered all over the 1982 album Beat. Frankly, I find the omnipresent “tink” sound makes Beat very annoying to listen to, but I nevertheless involuntarily laughed and clapped in appreciation when I noticed the sample last night. He also busted out some very Jamie Muir-esque sound effects to add a little extra sonic color to The Talking Drum / Larks Tongues in Aspic Part II one-two punch. I also really loved the electronica drum sounds he added to the (relatively) quiet bits in Indiscipline. Who could have guessed, but it was exactly what the song needed.

I mentioned in my review of the Thursday show that I consider Level Five to be among Crimson’s most “difficult” pieces for the audience to listen to, and judging by the furiously flying fingers, also obviously so for the band to play. But while I’m still trying to find my way into the song as a listener, it clearly went over like gangbusters, earning one of the most appreciative ovations of the night. If nothing else, hundreds of jaws dropped at the insanely rapid runs shared by Fripp & Levin. That kind of playing just isn’t human.

King Crimson live at The Nokia Theater, Times Square, New York City, August 16, 2008Worse seat, better sound?

Which reminds me of another thought I’ve always had about King Crimson. Needless to say, most members have been known as among the best-ever practitioners of their instruments. Fans often gush about how difficult the parts are, as if how speedily fingers move is directly proportionate to how “good” the music is. But I’d like to propose the idea here that that is to miss the point. The high level of musicianship in Crimson is not the goal, but rather a prerequisite to be able to play whatever is required, be it one note or a thousand. I’d argue that some of Fripp’s best playing is actually slower than what he is physically capable of, when unleashed at maximum velocity. If that’s what fans of technique looking for, might I direct you to Level Five or the 900 MPH solo to Sartori in Tangier. But to my ears, Fripp’s most affecting playing is in the gut-wrenchingly emotional solo in the Sylvian/Fripp song Wave and the slow-motion underwater solo in the Robert Fripp String Quintet piece Blue.

Further evidence the band was more energetic and connected: during the drum duet (as yet untitled?) at the beginning of the first encore, Levin elicited a some laughs by theatrically drumming along on the top of his amp with his funk fingers. Harrison & Mastelotto’s duet was infectious enough to get Belew’s head bobbing, and, shock of all shocks, I could see even the top of Fripp’s head rocking to the beat.

Anyone following the reviews being posted on DGMLive will be aware that Fripp does not join the band in coming to the front of the stage at the end of each show, instead standing off in the shadows. He very pointedly chooses to applaud his four bandmates, at once showing his appreciation for them and directing the audience’s attention to the players. To indulge in a little armchair psychoanalysis, perhaps he wants to avoid fans’ worship or rebuke, and instead direct the audience’s positive energy towards the band.

I’d like to close with two anecdotes, past and present. A minor but amusing incident from Thursday’s show I forgot to include in my review was an early cameo appearance by Adrian Belew. Long before showtime, Belew entered the venue through the crowd, mounted the stage and walked acriss into the wings, all the while toting his dry cleaning over his shoulder. When the audience noticed him and applauded, he hammed it up a little bit, pretending to sheepishly tip-toe across the stage. True story. Don’t venues have trapdoors and secret passages for the performers to sneak in and out? Perhaps he got accidentally locked out, and maybe Fripp’s ongoing comic book saga blog will tell us the full tale of how Belew was accidentally beamed outside the Crim mothership on an extraplanetary away mission to the space station dry cleaners.

And also, one telling moment I still recall from a Projekct Two show in 1999 at Irving Plaza, New York. Fripp had been typically focussed on his playing throughout, outwardly unemotional, until one moment between pieces when he sprung to life, turned to Belew and Trey Gunn and announced “Guys, I want to rock out!” He then turned to face the audience for the first time and repeated “I want to rock out, you guys!” And they did.

Official site:

King Crimson live at The Nokia Theatre, Times Square, New York City, August 14, 2008


UPDATE I: Welcome to all visitors from DGMLive, and many thanks to Sid for such a high-profile link to this humble blog. I appreciate the kind comments, and especially welcome what is certainly The Dork Report’s first and only celebrity guest, none other than Patricia Fripp!

UPDATE II: I’ve also posted my thoughts about the Saturday, August 16 show. As positive as the below review of Thursday is, Crimson blew it away with a real corker on Saturday.

Last night was the first in the extended grand finale of King Crimson’s 40th Anniversary Tour: a four-night stand at The Nokia Theatre in Times Square, New York City. I hope any random readers that stumble upon this blog entry looking for a blow-by-blow review will excuse this Dork Reporter as he indulges himself with a few observations on Crimson in general before getting around to talking about last night’s concert.

King Crimson live at The Nokia Theater Times Square New YorkI turned my phone off after this picture, I swear

Despite the band’s considerable longevity, the legendary King Crimson has never enjoyed fame or commercial success on a par with many of their so-called “progressive rock” peers (the pejorative term has never really fit King Crimson anyway). Witness, for example, the massively lucrative 2007 world tour by Genesis, itself originally influenced by King Crimson’s 1969 debut album In the Court of the Crimson King. Crimson’s relatively low profile is nobody’s fault but their own, and it is no accident. Crimson has been aggressively uncompromising from the very beginning, rarely willing to coast on past glories or cash-in with grand reunion tours (although many of the original members have toured under the name 21st Century Schizoid Band). It’s worth noting that Crimson has made certain half-hearted forays into the real world of commercialism, having filmed at least one music video (for Sleepless in 1984) and lip-synced their eccentric pop novelty Cat Food on Top of the Pops in 1970. But even so, King Crimson has proven time and again that it would rather break up (sometimes leaving real money on the table) than repeat itself. Huge chunks of their songbook are resistant to casual listening, and let’s be honest, many fans take a snooty pride in Crimson’s low profile and high barrier to entry.

King Crimson is in a constant state of evolution, and many successive incarnations made radical breaks from the past: the original 1969 configuration of the band was born in the hippie era, but had a unique blend of proto-metal aggression (21st Century Schizoid Man) and Mellotron-driven dirges (Epitaph). The 1971-72 band shed much of this portentous weight in favor of jazz-rock improvisation and filthy jokiness (Ladies of the Road). The 1973-74 version dove even deeper into jazz fusion (driven in part by master drummer Bill Bruford), but also unleashed some of the most intense metal instrumentals of Crimson’s entire lifetime. Crimson flamed out in 1974, but reappeared in its most radically new form yet in 1981-84, exploring guitar and drum synthesizers and giving birth to a genre that didn’t even have a name until decades later: “math rock.” King Crimson reappeared yet again in 1994, this time as a “double trio” comprised of paired guitars, drums, and basses. Later, a stripped-down quartet produced two albums of its most difficult (in a good, challenging way) music in 2001-2003.

King Crimson live at The Nokia Theater Times Square New YorkProof positive: I was there! Should’ve sprung for a better seat, though…

But all this is preamble. Now, the 2008 King Crimson is all about the rhythm section, and it was reflected in last night’s live mix. Bassist Tony Levin and drummers Pat Mastelotto and Gavin Harrison were very LOUD in the mix, sometimes relegating guitarists Robert Fripp and Adrian Belew to supporting roles. Mastelotto and Harrison played three pieces alone (B’Boom and two new untitled drum pieces), and dominated several others (including whole chunks of the thrillingly rearranged Neurotica and Level Five). I’m a huge fan of Trey Gunn (touchstyle guitarist in King Crimson between 1994-2003), having been to two of his solo shows, but boy is it great to hear Tony Levin back in the band. No one stands astride a stage like Levin, playing the bass like the lead instrument it so rarely is.

Although Robert Fripp has been the one consistent member of King Crimson over its 40-year history, it has never been entirely accurate to call it his band (one might even say it’s Adrian Belew’s band, considering his massive songwriting contributions over the years, not to mention his responsibilities as live frontman). Truth be told, Fripp might be fairly described as eccentric, certainly among other rock guitarists. His composition and style of guitar playing are utterly unique, born more from the European classical tradition than blues or jazz. He has also stood apart for his crusading stance against exploitation of musicians by record companies (long before it became cool). Fripp, now 62, has been blogging for years and making noises about retiring from touring for some time now. On the last League of Crafty Guitarists tour in November 2007, he performed partially obscured by his infamous imposing rack of electronics dubbed the Solar Voyager. Evidently, he was road-testing a new mode of playing live, and I would surmise that this new configuration is part of how he conceived of making this latest King Crimson tour possible for him on a personal and professional level. He also now wears large headphones, probably just as much to hear the rest of the band clearly as he does to blot out the sound of dopey audience catcalls. Regrettably, it’s a long-standing King Crimson tradition for the Douchebag Brigade (whom Fripp would call “Basement Dwellers”) to call out facetious requests for songs they know well Crimson will never play (“Moonchild!”) and sometimes just the last names of their heroes, whether or not they are currently in the band (“Bruuuuuford!”). Fripp’s new level of disconnection from the audience may allow him to focus on his bandmates and the music, but it also served to only increase the amount of catcalls from the Douchebag Brigade: “Fripp, show yourself” etc.

Last night, Crimson came right out of the gate with one of their most challenging pieces, The Construkction of Light. Frankly, it was noticeably wobbly at first, probably even to people who weren’t familiar with it. The band’s fumbling was worrisome, but I shouldn’t have doubted; the first section of the piece is by its nature a long, minimalist tension-and-release build-up, and Belew was suffering from technical difficulties (some very noticeable snaps, crackles and pops). A guitar tech solved his troubles before the song kicked into high gear and I was practically dancing in my seat (well, as best I could, considering its odd time signature).

The Construkction of Light was impenetrable to me on first listen in 2000, but Level Five remains a mystery. I still, even now, can’t wrap my brain around it. It was by far the most challenging piece they played last night, in a set list made up largely of what passes for popular favorites in the King Crimson songbook. Level Five is frankly hard work to listen to, and definitely not something I would select to introduce a novice to Crimson.

But as I said, most of the rest of the night was true to its billing as a 40th Anniversary Celebration: Crimson reveled in many of the most rocking pieces they’ve ever composed. The Talking Drum, a piece that starts from total silence on record, now blasts out intensely from its very first note, and builds to a literally screaming climax that in turn explodes into Larks Tongues in Aspic Part II. Larks, together with Red, can always be counted on to blow everyone’s hair back, and maybe the doors off the venue. I believe Fripp has a famous quote about Crimson being able to shred wallpaper at a distance of miles?

King Crimson live at The Nokia Theater Times Square New YorkHeat in the jungle streets

The beautiful ballad Walking on Air provided a break from all the intensity, but it didn’t last long. Fripp, playing more of a supportive role than ever before, stepped out for once and truly cooked in Dinosaur. Dinosaur is also, incidentally, the one song that separates the true Crimson fans from the weekend warriors: anyone who claps during the false ending is a n00b. Crimson closed with a rip-roaring rendition of Vrooom, but Fripp’s lead melody lines in the coda were sadly omitted (he did, however, play them with The League of Crafty Guitarists when I saw them last November). Although I’m fully aware that the evening was not about me and I don’t get to choose, I have to admit I was bummed to not hear Sleepless. I had read on that they had played it earlier on the tour, and as I loved the 1995 arrangement of the piece heard on the live album B’Boom, I was very much looking forward to hearing this version of the band tackle it.

A few notes about The Nokia Theatre: it was a massive movie theater once upon a time (I recall seeing the hilariously horrible Anaconda there in 1997), but is now a huge, modern concert venue. I love a good pint of beer as much as the next guy, but my heart always sinks when I attend concerts at venues that serve alcohol. There is always a contingent that overindulges and acts out in a way that is evidently amusing to them but annoying to everyone else. I noticed a bunch of obese bald dudes on the lower right of the floor that were obviously drunk and/or high, and no doubt ruining the experience for everyone around them. Also, the venue had video cameras trained on the stage throughout, which very much surprised me, given Fripp’s emphatically-stated objections to the obstructive process of filming concerts. They even managed to capture him on screen at one point, despite his being largely obscured from view (during Larks Tongues in Aspic Part II, I believe). Perhaps someone from Crimson’s road crew had a word with the videographers, because he never appeared on screen again.

One little bit of trivia: a noticed a familiar-looking guy pacing up and down the aisles before and after the show. I thought at first that maybe I might have known him from somewhere, professionally or personally, until it suddenly hit me it might be Tony Geballe, former Crafty Guitarist and member of The Trey Gunn Band. What was he up to? Was he, as a member of the extended King Crimson family, tasked by the band to police the audience for illicit bootleggers? Anyway, whether it was him or not, Geballe is a great guitar player, and I recommend checking out his album Native of the Rain.

I’ve now seen King Crimson three times, first in 1995 in Philadelphia and then in 2001 in New York City. It was a delight to see them again last night, in a slightly rough-and-tumble but exhilarating performance. I look forward to catching them again tomorrow night, and plan on posting some more thoughts on The Dork Report later.

Thanks for reading, to anyone that made it this far! Please leave a comment if you have anything to add.

Official King Crimson site:

Must view: Tony Levin’s photos of Thursday’s concert

Must read: David Fricke’s Rolling Stone review of Thursday’s concert

Batman: Gotham Knight

Batman: Gotham Knight


Batman: Gotham Knight is a direct-to-DVD production from Warner Premiere, intended as a back-door prequel to the feature film Batman: The Dark Knight. Warner Bros. has tried this tactic before, and will again. 2003’s The Animatrix was a planned interlude in The Matrix franchise, enjoying extensive involvement from filmmakers the Wachowski Brothers. Coming soon is a motion-graphics animated version of Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons’ graphic novel Watchmen, preceding the forthcoming live action feature film adaptation (no doubt Moore, who has long since divorced himself from his past work for Warner Bros.’ DC Comics, has a few choice words for this development).

Batman: Gotham KnightThat’s a good look for you, Mr. Wayne

Like The Animatrix, Gotham Knight is a portmanteau films, the product of multiple writers and animation teams. But in contrast, Gotham Knight is only tangentially related to its sister film, The Dark Knight. A pair of detectives figure as characters in both, and the gang war that percolates in the background of The Dark Knight is the driving incident behind many of the Gotham Knight tales. But the short films (mostly in a Japanese anime style) vary wildly in quality and comprehensibility:

  • “Have I Got a Story For You” (Shoujirou Nishimi) – A pack of skate rats tell tall tales of the Batman, until the real deal shows up. One of the best of the lot, with a unique hand-drawn animation style, mixed with a little CG.
  • “Crossfire” (Futoshi Higashide) – Two detectives are literally caught in the crossfire of a gang war. Suffers from particularly awful dialogue.
  • “Field Test” (Hiroshi Morioka) – Batman receives a new toy from Lucius Fox that works a little too well.
  • “In Darkness Dwells” (Yasuhiro Aoki) – Guest-starring two veterans of Batman’s rogues’ gallery: Killer Croc and Scarecrow. Some of the best animation, but the story is incomprehensible.
  • “Working Through Pain” (Toshiyuki Kubooka) – Batman, shot in the gut, struggles alone just to get home. He has hallucinatory flashbacks to his spiritual training in the art of overcoming physical pain. He recalls how his teachers rejected him for his impure motivations (to enable his revenge plan, not to attain higher spirituality). This, one of the best stories, leads directly into:
  • “Deadshot” (Jong-Sik Nam) – …one of the worst. A master assassin (a blatant rip-off of the character Bullseye from Marvel Comics’ Daredevil) targets Lieutenant Gordon. A really lame conclusion to the collection.

Batman: Gotham KnightWhy so serious?

Official movie site:

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Batman: The Dark Knight

Batman: The Dark Knight


I wanted to love Batman: The Dark Knight. Director Christopher Nolan (also cowriter with brother Jonathan) and star Christian Bale have long proved themselves thoughtful, serious filmmakers, but if they have one common flaw it might be a terminal deficiency of levity. The Dark Knight inarguably has all the hallmarks of quality, intelligence, and craft, but it makes a miscalculation in tone. Aspiring to the cinematic heights of epic crime melodramas like Heat and The Godfather Part II, The Dark Knight overshoots the limits of its source material and becomes oppressively grim and depressing. One of the film’s marketing taglines was The Joker’s catchphrase “Why so serious?”, a question it should have taken to heart itself. Batman is, after all, a dude who dresses up in a rubber bat suit with pointy ears.

The Dark Knight takes its name from the seminal 1980s graphic novel The Dark Knight Returns by comics auteur Frank Miller, but is not an adaptation. At this point, an adaptation would be redundant anyway, as Miller’s general tone and interpretation of the character as an obsessed, psychotic loner has informed every Batman film so far. Spider-Man 2 remains, for me, the only film adaptation of a comic book superhero property to strike the right balance between comics’ heightened reality and cinema’s more grounded literalness.

Batman: The Dark KnightPick a card…

This Dork Reporter grew up with Tim Burton’s two original Batman films, which took the character “seriously” insofar as giving him a reasonably plausible psychological motivation. But they also plopped the character down in an obviously fantastical parallel universe in which such things as rocket-powered penguins and death by laughter (literally) were plausible. In contrast, the two Nolan / Bale films drain all the wit and whimsy from the core Batman mythos, and place him in a decaying, corrupt, crime-ridden city straight out of 1940s pulp noir novels. Living in modern-day New York City, it’s almost impossible for this Dork Reporter to imagine Russian and Italian organized crime families being so powerful as to commandeer five big city banks for money laundering purposes, and yet that is a key plot point in the supposedly serious and realistic The Dark Knight. Indeed, any viewer of The Wire and The Sopranos will know that what contemporary organized crime families are capable of is far more mundane. Comic book fans will realize this is the same mistake often made in post-80s comic books: mistaking bloody murder and mayhem for “realism.” If The Dark Knight wanted to be taken so seriously, it could have begun by tweaking its depiction of the contemporary real world.

Batman: The Dark KnightInternet rumor has it that Christian Bale is the star of this picture

Every emotion, motivation, and plot point is pushed to such an absurd degree of pretentious gravity and self-seriousness that it almost becomes comic. The precise moment where the film irrevocably lost me is the scene in which the grievously disfigured Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart) bellows at Detective Gordon (Gary Oldman) from his hospital bed, commanding him to speak his old derogatory nickname gleaned from years of working internal affairs cases: Two-Face. The performances were so exaggeratedly despairing and melodramatic that I frankly started to laugh.

What little deliberate humor there is is misplaced and awkward. As before, there is some levity to be mined from Bruce Wayne’s deliberate pretense to aimless trust-fund wastrel. Most of Alfred’s reliably dry dialogue amuses, mostly thanks to Michael Caine’s superlative ability to command the audience’s attentions and sympathies. But other stabs at humor misfire; during The Joker’s extended siege on Harvey Dent’s motorcade, one of the security guards provides a running commentary on the proceedings, as if the audience needed any verbal cue that an about-to-be collision with a tumbling helicopter is a bad thing indeed. The action, while spectacular, is nevertheless mostly plausible, save for Batman and Rachel (Maggie Gyllenhaal)’s fall of some 20 stories from Wayne’s penthouse apartment onto the roof of a car. How is it even remotely believable that they could survive without a scratch? I doubt such a plot device would pass muster in a vintage Batman comic book.

Batman: The Dark KnightAn outtake from Michael Mann’s Miami Vice

The performances are good all around, but The Dark Knight could very well be subtitled the Heath Ledger and Aaron Eckhart Show. Christian Bale, the ostensible star of the proceedings, is given little to do. I assume his hoarse Batman voice is meant, in story terms, to prevent him from being recognized as Bruce Wayne while also making him sound more scary. Instead, he seems asthmatic and out of breath. Morgan Freeman summons his reliable gravitas to plays Batman’s supremely capable beard, Lucius Fox, the nominal head of Wayne Industries. Maggie Gyllenhaal is a huge improvement over Katie Holmes. Although just as young and stylish, it is slightly easier to suspect disbelief that she could be a top District Attorney. Gary Oldman provides another example of his ability to subsume his physical appearance behind makeup and props (as in Hannibal and Dracula), but here he is all cuddly fatherly warmth and righteous but fair vengeance (basically a retread of his characterization of Sirius Black in the Harry Potter films).

Batman: The Dark KnightHey, there’s a female presence in this movie?

Setting aside the nostalgia and goodwill surrounding his premature death, Heath Ledger is indeed amazing. Even if he hadn’t died shortly after completing the role, his performance as The Joker would likely be remembered alongside other classic cinema nightmares: Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lecter in The Silence of the Lambs, Robert Mitchum as Harry Powell in The Night of the Hunter, and Kevin Spacey as John Doe in Se7en. One of the best aspects of the character is the clear emphasis that he’s not in the least bit interested in the traditional pasttimes of Batman’s colorful rogues’ gallery. Rather, his aim is to foment anarchy, even self-aware enough to ask “Do I look like a man with a plan?” He does occasionally let rip with a maniacal laugh on a par with the great Jokers of the past (no less all-time great scenery chewers than Jack Nicholson and Cesar Romero, but most of the time he’s creepiest when not even smiling. One nice idea that isn’t fully developed is that this Joker doesn’t have the standard comic book “secret origin.” This Joker tells two very different stories explaining how he became both physically and mentally scarred. It’s possible he may not even remember how he became the way he is, but even if he does, does it matter? Which is all the more scary.

Must Read: The New Yorker review by David Denby

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