FILM

Rip It Up, Issue 236, 1 April 1997, Page 38

FILM

■reviews by

William DART

LOST HIGHWAY Director: David Lynch The other night I surfed the Net in search of Lynchland, and came across a revealing confession from the man himself, talking about his own movies. “Every film is a disaster — the question is how big a disaster it is,” he confessed to an interviewer — a particularly provocative comment with his latest flick, Lost Highway, all geared up to mystify, enchant and irritate New Zealand audiences. Lost Highway is cryptic and elliptical enough to crease Robbe-Grillet’s brow permanently — what else could one expect when the main character (Bill Pullman’s Beverly Hills sax player) suddenly transforms, mid-movie, into Balthazar Getty’s grease monkey? There’s a double serving of Patricia Arquette too, making an obvious nod in the direction of Hitchcock’s Vertigo. One of her characters is blonde, the other brunette, both are unfathomably mysterious, with a line in deadpan delivery that makes Isabella Rossellini in Blue Velvet seem positively vivacious. Lynch has no trouble creating disturbing, murky atmospheres (Peter Demin’s camera and Angelo Badalamenti’s score play their part here), but he’s not so strong at sustaining a narrative over the 135 minute time span. Indeed, it’s debatable whether there is a narrative in the conventional sense of the word. It’s worth noting at this point that Eraserhead, the film that made Lynch’s name, runs at a modest 89 minutes. A flesh-and-blood character like Robert Loggia’s gangster (with a marvellous piece of road rage rant) is a godsend, as is the recurring menace of Robert Blake’s Mystery Man — Mephisto comes to Death Valley. The director may have dubbed his latest film ‘a twenty-first century noir horror film’ but, alongside such 40s noir classics as Wilder’s Double Indemnity or Tourneur’s Out of the Past, Lost Highway runs the risk of living up to its title. BEAVIS AND BUTT-HEAD DO AMERICA Director: Mike Judge Well, here they are, those unloved but ultimately lovable geeks who, just a few years ago, muttered and stuttered their way through Cher’s messy remake of ‘I Got You Babe’. In MTV World, Beavis and Butt-head have come to symbolise the frustrations of youth in the 90s, their often inchoate babbling the contemporary equivalent of 50s cool and 70s jive. The movie is a parable about the horrors of television deprivation, when B&B get unwittingly caught up in a trail of violence and mayhem running from California to Washington. Mike Judge’s characterisations might be crude alongside Matt Groening’s Simpson family, but he can lay down a backdrop with style, and a frenzied psychedelic sequence (spurred on by some tasty cactus juice) is inspired. The chuckles come easy to devotees, although doubtlessly there will be non-believers out there. There are moments that are a sharp as a knife edge: Beavis, waxing rhetorically, vents his frustrations to the accompaniment of soaring music, or one of their protagonists bewails “Where are you when we need you, Ike?” Best of all is an ultimo SNAG school teacher, who leads his class in a sing-song of Tom Wilson’s ‘Lesbian Seagull’ (an obscure piece of silliness from the late 70s). And if you think it was a hoot in the film, wait until it gets a full-lunged treatment from Engelbert Humperdinck over the closing titles. DANTE’S PEAK Director: Roger Donaldson Our Roger has, let it be admitted, been responsible for some pretty dire movies — the all-time low being his 1988 Cocktail, a turkey so deadly it was a wonder Tom Cruise’s career ever recov-

ered from it. Dante’s Peak is a winner, perhaps the disaster movie of the 90s, with pace, humour and sass in equal proportions. Yes, folks, sit back in your seat, clutch your popcorn and watch the smug citizens of Dante’s Peak, just voted the ‘second best place to live in America’, get their comeuppance from the local volcano. Donaldson delivers more thrills in his precredits sequence than Twister managed in all its 100 or so minutes, and the town is demolished with an inevitability and thoroughness that would get thumbs-up from an Old Testament prophet — OK, that’s enough with the river of acid, bring on the lava f10w... hey, hold the dam break for another 10 minutes. Not only is there a bevy of special effects (a four-wheel drive careering over fiery lava with flaming wheels is one of the best), but there are personable players to boot. Pierce Brosnan makes a gentlemanly job of the volcanologist, and Linda Hamilton plays the cafe owner/mayor with the energy of a young Dorothy Malone. In his first feature, Smash Palace, Donaldson coaxed a nice performance from a young Greer Robson. In his latest, he does the same from Hamilton’s two youngsters, with a kitchen scene that is pulled off with extraordinary sensitivity. WELCOME TO THE DOLLHOUSE Director: Todd Solondz Welcome to the Dollhouse came with just a little too much pre-publicity for its own good, or perhaps its initial showcasing in last year’s International Film Festival put it in the company of films that were simply much more focused. Solondz seems determined to deliver black comedy, a genre that Americans so often botch because they can’t resist pulling punches. Heather Matarazzo’s Dawn Wiener, a Jewish princess gone wrong, is the butt of everyone’s malice, both at school and at home, but too often the moment either misfires (a discussion of lesbianism amongst the 13-year-olds in the canteen is simply tasteless) or it’s just 50... we 11... ordinary. (Dawn’s family rate about one out of 10 on the John Waters scale of dysfunctional families, and they need at least a six to be watchable.) The snappiest moment in Dollhouse doesn’t feature Matarazzo at all. It’s a brief scene in which her brother and his muso mates pump out an excruciating version of the Stones’ ‘Satisfaction’, part klezmer, part garage, and totally awful. More barbs like this and the film would have been tastier. CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION Director: Peter Duncan There are few characters more fanatical than Judy Davis’ Joan Fraser. Joan’s a political firebrand, a card-carrying communist, who never relinquishes her stand, even though, as a frail and pathetic old woman, the world she believes in has crumpled around her. Children kicks off from a curious premise. In 1949 Joan gets invited to the Soviet Union, thanks to her assiduous letter writing to Stalin. She has a child to the Russian leader and, back in Oz, 40 years later, the young Joe echoes his father’s techniques in his own political shenanigans. Swallow this, and you’d swallow Ayers Rock. One of the problems here is that Children of the Devolution is really two films. The first concerns Joan and her obsession with Stalin and communism: a plot of limited potential, despite the magnetic presence of F Murray Abraham as the Soviet dictator. The second shows her son’s rise to power, which is far more gripping. The bold shifts in tone between lampooned Russian bureaucrats singing Cole Porter and the harsh reality of the 90s are difficult to adjust to. Pseudo-doco interviews cutting through the film don’t help much either. For all the film’s flaws, Davis invests her character with a special irascible poignancy (Billy Bragg’s ‘Tender Comrade’ is a very appropriate tribute at her funeral), and it’s a pleasure to watch Davis and Sam Neill playing together again — their first pairing since My Brilliant Career almost 20 years ago.

FALLEN ANGELS Director: Wong Kar-Wai This is a helter-skelter ride of a film, a glimpse of high decadence in the Commonwealth’s most threatened colony through the adventures of two disillusioned couples (a hit man and his manager/girlfriend, and a mute ex-con and his unrequited love interest). The film has the brutal energy of Fassbinder at his best (complete with a juke-box-and-mirrors tribute to Douglas Sirk at one point), and balances balletic gore with whimsical observations of life (particularly those involving the mute man videoing his father). The cast is first rate. Karen Mong as Baby (a bimbo with an orange bob the hit man becomes entangled with) is a ball of hysteria — whether snacking on French fries in McDonald’s or running along rain-swept streets. The real star of the film is Chris Doyle’s camera, with its unsettling use of wide-angle lens. The characters seem to be almost bursting from the screen, making voyeurs of us all. And as for cultural mix, check out /Michele Reis writhing on a bed in latex dress and fish-net stockings, masturbating to the cool recitations of Laurie Anderson. Essential Films are bravely sending Fallen Angels out orKthe circuit in tandem with a New Zealand short, Stuart McKenzie and Neil Pardington’s Chinese Whispers. This 15 minute film looks at the racist underbelly of our capital city, through the eyes of a young Eurasian boy named Vincent Chan (the highly photogenic Leighton Phair). Pardington and McKenzie have crafted their film skilfully for the big screen (with expert work from camera man Phil Burchell and editor Eric de Beus), but it all appears positively stately alongside the dazzling pyrotechnics of Fallen Angels. What one would give for some of the stylish and animated playing that brings Wong Kar-Wai’s film so brilliantly to life.