Brief notes on some recent viewings in roughly descending order:
Duck Season Fernando Eimbcke's debut feature isn't shot in black and white merely to be appear more superficially artful; it's rather a more pointed aestheticization: This is a memorialization in the present tense. Effectively harnessing that tonal paradox, the film succeeds as an ode to quotidian pleasures, where filling a couple glasses to the brim with Coke packs the bittersweet punch of fleeting innocence. Every bit as charming as you've heard, without ever stumbling toward preciousness or forced whimsy.
ATL At the risk of unfair subgenre ghettoization, this is only a hip hop movie insofar as it stars a pair of rappers. Instead, it's a surprisingly sweet seriocomic look a class friction, boasting a light touch and a sharp eye for regional specificity. T.I.'s good. Big Boi deserves Oscar consideration.
Idlewild Here, too, Big Boi is best in show, but, save maybe a better-than-decent Terrence Howard, the rest is a half-baked mess. Think: Purple Rain meets Moulin Rouge, sans the former's classic soundtrack (some Aquemini or Stankonia material could've livened things up considerably) or the latter's sporadically exciting stylistic flourishes; "eccentric," to be sure, but more as a backhanded compliment.
The Illusionist Right, this is one those prestige-tinged period films where American movie stars speak English with foreign accents. It looks great, but so does most of the Merchant-Ivory catalogue. I'd have given it the benefit of the doubt as a metaphor-for-the-magic-of-movies piece had it not opted for superfluous explanation in a tacked-on epilogue.
Brick If you still thought Memento was great after the third go-'round, this is for you. Same goes if you've privately longed for a Big Sleep remake with the kid from 3rd Rock from the Sun in the Bogey role. Otherwise, do yourself a favor and stick to Hawks and Huston.
Duane Hopwood As one of the few people who actually liked The Pallbearer, I had some hope for this one (which we rented randomly after being unable to agree on other picks). Matt Mulhern's movie resides firmly in the wasteland of Amerindie mediocrity, inoffensive and uninspired. In a nutshell: Ross Gellar moves from the city to the Jersey shore, marries Janeane Garofalo, has a couple kids, drinks heavily, gets divorced, loses visitation rights to said kids due to said drinking, and--surprise, surprise--rediscovers himself. Not as heartwarming as it sounds, but maybe not quite as awful either.
Dead Man's Shoes What starts out a British gangster flick, with some idiosyncratic appeal, evolves discomfittingly into your standard-issue revenge drama, with scant heart, less brains, and the usual dubious moral implications.
