Wanted: Storytellers

Strong on visual effects, weak on story.

Wanted is an almost-two-hour movie about a loserly guy who finds out one day that he, apparently, hails from a long line of uber-cool (and cold-blooded) assassins. He is taken under the wing of his recently-assassinated, previously-unknown father's friends, and is then tasked with avenging his father's untimely death and the betrayal made upon The Fraternity. As he is geared up for the final battle, he is shown the inner workings of the secret group formed by Weavers, and discovers how this group acts as agents of Fate. In the end, he comes face-to-face with the assassin; whose dying breath causes the life that he has finally learned to embrace to, once again, unravel like torn silk before his very eyes.

In the world of myths, this is an ugly duckling story made cool, contemporary and testosterone-loaded with lots of guns, bruised-and-bloodied faces, guns, and more guns. (The highest point the protagonist (James McAvoy) needs to reach, after all, is to be able to curve a bullet around an obstacle to hit the target spot-on.)

While the movie started off with a visual feast and adrenaline-pumping stunts, it failed to maintain that amount of excitement and energy to the very end.

It *is* remniscient of The Matrix and Fight Club; but more of the former than the latter, since this was less mindfuck, more visual grandiosity.

Not that this one's effects would give The Matrix a run for its multi-million money, but it did a good job in making James McAvoy look cool in a shooting spree, and Angelina Jolie become the Goddess of All-That-is-Cool-and-Spiffy in her crazy-hot-chick-driving-the-speeding-red-car moment. (Then again, saying that 'Angelina Jolie is cool' is a redundancy.)

The movie started to become dragging towards the middle, making it the epitome of anti-climactic. Think racecar zooming off at incredulously high-speed only to end up crawling to the finish line with a coughing engine.

Unfortunately, at the same point where the movie is supposed to be shining its brightest did it begin its downward spiral to obscurity.

The ridiculously befuddled ending makes you think that the filmmakers expended all their creative energy to keep their viewers' attention during the first 15 minutes of the film, and then either got too confident that they've manage to fully entrance the audience or ran out of enough mojo to keep the action coming.

I wish they spent more time on establishing characters and forming an actual plot than in stitching together montages of training, assassinations and the like.

The actors were so-so in this. Don't expect any Oscar nominations headed your way, kiddies. James McAvoy either looked stressed or full of teenage angst. Angelina Jolie was of her usual stoicism, peppered with coyness and some cream-puffish-mushy personality. Morgan Freeman was, well, Morgan Freeman.

The only utterly brilliant aspect in all this that I cannot find fault in was the editing. With the story freely moving from the present to the past in pseudo-montages, it didn't become a confusing jumble of images and events. Instead, it provided the audience with a sort of stream-of-consciousness viewing experience wherein the audience was seeing/experiencing/re-experiencing whatever it is that is running through his head during these moments.

In conclusion, I would recommend this movie to people into mouth-agaping stunts and effects and/or Angelina Jolie. But if you want to be over-the-top wowed-out, then this movie is not for you.

sweep me off my feet, why don't you?

THE DARK KNIGHT IS AWE.FRIGGIN.INSPIRING.

I was thinking of criteria by which I could judge the films I'll be reviewing in the future, and even though I've managed to think stuff up, using them for TDK might come out farce-ish.

Coz, really. The Dark Knight is THE BEST film to come out (so far) this year.

As in.

Do you feel me frothing at the mouth? Because, really. I am.

To save your monitors from getting flooded with my gushiness, I'll just list down my notes in parts:


The Villain
The Joker was disturbia personified. Heath Ledger was PERFECT for the role. How sad is it that he had to pass away so soon? No more sequels for his freakishly sane Joker, THAT sad! His performance was nothing short of phenomenal. It was so far-off from Jack Nicholson's version, that the earlier version, despite its merits, pales in comparison.

Heath Ledger's The Joker isn't your garden-variety demented villain because he's simply not demented. He's a genius who reads a lot of Thomas Hobbes/Xun Zi/Freud, and his apparent dementia is really just a nasty side-effect of his starkly different worldview and opinion of mankind.

He's not someone you should pity or hate. He's actually someone to admire and look up to. In a somewhat sick and twisted way.

I love the person who provided for the The Joker's new-and-improved personality, and Heath Ledger for doing an unparalleled job in breathing life into the character. It's really unfortunate that he had to exchange *his* life for The Joker's.


The Hero
Christian Bale as The Batman managed to stand up to Heath Ledger's stellar performance. He put up a very, very good fight on two levels: as the hero of the story and as the actor playing the title role. He managed to steal his equal share of the limelight even if the movie started with Heath/The Joker. The Batman's deep, gruffy voice was something that the other Batmans didn't have. It was unsettling at first, but it grows on you, so that was fine.

Also notable here is this Batman is one of the most humanified. I haven't seen Batman Begins (I know, I suck. Not a fan of Katie Holmes kase eh.) so I'm not sure how it compares, but from the ones I've seen before (Val Kilmer's, Michael Keaton's and George Clooney's) his is the least stiff. It might have something to do with the fact that his Bruce Wayne is also the most human. (Gotta credit the well-developed plot and great characterization.) This Bruce Wayne wasn't just all angst and snobby riches; he actually has a pretty wide array of emotions: jealousy, envy, kindness, generosity, helplessness and all other stuff from the spectrum of feelings. There was Bruce Wayne's characteristic dry wit and maangas persona, but his humanity shone through very clearly.

[On a more girly note, Christian Bale is one of the hottest Batmans EVER. Even without tons of fanservice moments (i.e. moments of half-nakedness), Christian Bale was oooooozeeeeng with sexiness. Haha.]


Others
Harvey Dent/Harvey Two-Face to me as a viewer was a sad happening, but as a writer/filmmaker, was a giddy development. This is where that wonderfully-run plot comes in to receive its trophy.

Alfred took his share of the limelight, and shone not just as the perennial sidekick, but as one very talented and experienced PERSON.

Lucius Fox was as maangas as you could imagine Morgan Freeman becoming. Problem is that I kept forgetting who he was in the movie, and kept thinking of him as Morgan Freeman. (There was a point where Bruce Wayne mentioned Lucius, and I was like, "Who? Oh. Morgan Freeman.") It's not really good if you see the actor instead of the part he's playing. I'm beginning to think that he's getting typecast unto these sorts of caretaker-ish roles. This is remniscient of that part he played in 1408, albeit less scare-inducing.


Technicals
Visual effects were THE BOMB. I was literally clapping joyfully at every carchase, building explosion and gun firing. Especially astig moments for the next Batman movies to top are:

*The kidnap of Lao in Hongkong (Love that return-to-airplane move!)
*The transfer of Harvey Dent to County Jail (I clapped when he flew out with a trike.)
*The tracking room/monitors
*The final showdown of Batman and The Joker

I should also say that my hat's off to whoever is in the idea pool who thought of Lucius Fox's designs and The Joker's explosive schemes.


Plot Runs
The movie ran for about 2 hours and a half. On paper, it might seem very LOTR-ish long, but really. The two hours were well worth it. If you're depressed, stressed or just simply bored, this is one of the best escape movies out right now. I was so into it that I didn't even call out what had happened to Commissioner Gordon (How could I have NOT seen THAT coming?!), and the two hours were more than enough to establish the relationships among all the characters, do some foreshadowings (A lot, actually. Anton Chekov would be so proud.) and provide basis for all other events that would follow. Script wasn't really riveting, but it fit just right. I ended up liking that "You either become the hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain." line in-movie even if it seemed really long and awkward in the trailer. The best script came at the end, when Gordon was explaining what Batman is to Gotham. It came out so nicely that I cried at the end of the movie because of it. (Such a girl.)

Sooo there. Gushing over. Do I re

Save Now

ally still need to make a wrap-up? I'll just end up being redundant here. Anyway.

Go pick your ass up and watch The Dark Knight. I promise to give you a refund if you leave the theater disappointed after.

Yes. It's THAT good.

Vignette#1

"'Ma, hindi dapat mamatay si Manong."

I opened my eyes, turned to the direction of the voice, and found a little girl. She was probably around six or seven years old with smooth, dark skin, long hair, and pretty little lips that always seemed to be pouting. She looked up at a woman who was the spitting image of herself, only older, and frowned.

A look of worry crossed the older woman's face, as if unsure how to respond to the girl's last statement.

I stood up, watched as the older woman kneeled down to the girl's eye level, smoothed the girl's hair, and heaved a deep breath as she opened her mouth to explain.

An explanation I didn't get to hear because of a group of youngsters that brushed past me.

I turned to the direction they were heading - behind me, and studied their pretty faces from afar. I know I've seen them somewhere before even if I couldn't place them at the moment. Artistas, probably? I thought to myself. They look harried, worried - one of them was even close to tears - as they walked briskly along the white halls, and met with another cluster of people at the end of it. A man wearing a white lab coat - a doctor, obviously - was speaking before the cluster, and everyone in the cluster was listening to him in rapt attention.

Interest piqued, I sauntered over to the cluster. Surely, they won't mind, or even notice, an usi like myself, hovering nearby, hoping to catch some juicy chismis.

"We tried. For 45 minutes."

And the rest was drowned by hiccupping and sobbing. I saw one of the older guys - the one with salt-and-pepper hair - clench his fist, even as his face remained impassive. I felt sad for him, knowing somehow, that it were the poker-faced people who felt the most heart-wrenching emotions.

If only I were one of the people in that cluster, it would have been him I hugged first. If I knew him better, I'd say that in the cluster, he was the person most burdened.

...if I knew him.

I blinked. Something had caught my eye, and I rubbed at it furiously. I heard the doctor excusing himself from the (drama) sadness, and brushed past me, leaving a trail of cold wind in his wake.

I looked up, and saw the cluster huddling even tighter and tighter. Salt-and-pepper guy unclenched his fist and pushed the door that was right behind where the doctor once was. The door slammed right back into place, almost as if it were angry itself.

I glanced at the cluster of people that he had left, at the door that was still slightly swiveling back and forth, back at the group, and then at the door that was now slowly quieting down.

I shrugged to myself, and decided to take full advantage of my being an usi and followed salt-and-pepper guy into the room.

The little girl had prepared me for it, of course. I knew someone had died. But who Manong was...

One of the nurses was holding a white sheet by its edges and pulling it up and over the body that lay there. Salt-and-pepper guy motioned for the nurse to stop, and she set the sheet down and excused herself from the room. Like the doctor, she brushed past me and left a trail of cold wind in her wake.

But, unlike the doctor, she had given me the benefit of a hasty glance.

Salt-and-pepper guy was blocking my view of the dead person's face, and for all the usi in me, I didn't think it proper to intrude his space during his moment of grief.

Especially now that I could see his shoulders visibly shaking.

And then I heard the door slam shut behind me.

Someone had entered.

"Fancy seeing you here."

I ignored the speaker, thinking that the statement was for the salt-and-pepper guy.

The speaker cleared his throat.

Salt-and-pepper guy didn't even seem to hear it, so I turned around to see who it was.

"Hi."

It was young man, his face unlined, his smile reaching only until his cheeks because his eyes were the saddest pair I've ever laid *my* eyes on.

Like the earlier group that had brushed past me, it felt like I knew who he was.

Something deep, deep inside me knew who he was.

"Hello."

It was like meeting an old friend after a very, very long time of not seeing each other.

"You were talking to me?"

He nodded.

"Oh."

Though, like an old friend you've just seen again, you can't be sure that he really is *your* old friend...

He reached out his hand. "We need to go now."

...until of course, he introduces himself.

I glanced at his outstretched hand,

And paused.

He must have noticed the hesitation. "I never get why you people want to hang around watching all these happening. Actually, I never get it why you people have to go on like this."

"...what?"

"Crying."

"Oh." I tried to process what he was getting at. "It's only natural, I guess."

"I don't think you people really understand what 'natural' is."

"...well."

I didn't know what to say.

"You can't stay here, y'know." He continued. "It's not... natural."

I sighed.

"Let's go."

"Now?"

He nodded, and I sighed again.

I took his hand, and he lead me towards the door.

He pushed the door open, and for the last time, I closed my eyes.

Freud Rocks

He stands there, smiling from under his umbrella, as though unwary of the sky weeping from above him.

He beckons, and you contemplate whether you should join him, or stay under the fast-disappearing safety that the store awning is providing you.

No contest, really.

You convince yourself (in under three seconds) that this is the fastest way to get home in this sordid weather.

You step out of your not-very-shielding-shelter, into a puddle (The streets are quickly disappearing under sewer water.), and then finally, under the protection of his umbrella. He laughs at you for getting queasy over walking in sewer water, and you say your thanks. Part in sarcasm, part in gratitude. Thank God he thinks the queasiness is because of the rat-pissed water.

And now the challenge begins.

How do you actually navigate through the flooded streets under one, small umbrella without maintaining a *friendly* distance?

You don't.

Gathering all your Freudian defense mechanisms to the surface (with Repression and Rationalization leading the pack), you let yourself wade closer to him. Close to the point where one of your hands is resting on the messenger bag slung behind him, and your shoulder is touching his left arm. So close that even if he shifted hands in holding his umbrella, part of your upper body is still very, very close to his.

You draw your breath.

(And you're glad the thunderstorm manages to mask the sound.)

He suggests you hold the umbrella. And you do.

He says he'll just let you have it, and he'll just walk with his jacket hood on.

You refuse, and insist on holding the umbrella up for the both of you. You tell him you refuse to get guilted over him getting sick.

He obliges. A tad reluctantly, you note.

But he obliges, and the two of you are huddled under one umbrella, so you really can’t complain.

(You could imagine your Freudian defense mechanisms having a party inside you. With Repression and Rationalization hosting it.)

A few steps and a couple of curses dedicated to haphazard drivers, the two of you reach the other side of the street.

He puts his arm around you, and your heart... miraculously stays still.

(How wonderful that your Freudian defense mechanisms remain sober despite their party.)

You tell yourself his hand is there just so he could lead you away from cracks, potholes and the like.

And he does that exactly.

(Repression and Rationalization do excellent work, really.)

He removes his arm the moment the two of you get over the obstacle course that is the sidewalk, and you start wondering why - as cliché fiction goes - your heart didn't skip a beat.

Then comes the epiphany. You aren't in a fairy tale, and he isn't The Prince.

(Or at least, that's what the pack leaders tell you to believe.)

You wonder what his girlfriend would say to this.

Then again, his girlfriend never seemed to be the jealous type. At least, not in the three times that you've actually crossed paths with her.

He tells you trivial stuff as you walk through Underwater Streets. You nod in all the right places, encouraging him to talk. He does. He's just so easy to read sometimes. He continues with his mini-stories, and you continue with your mini-reactions.

And then he says, I had you hold the umbrella 'coz you'd get drenched more if I held it for both of us.

And you wish you could feel a lot more than you're feeling now.

Why can't you ever just enjoy the moment when you're *in* the moment? Why must you always feel... nothing?

You're pretty sure you'll feel everything only after the moment has passed, and all your Freudian defense mechanisms have gone to bed.

Which is the worst, really. Having to deal with all that in one instant.

You reach the end of the street, under yet another store awning. He stops to take his umbrella from you, pauses to assess your situation, and then smiles.

You'll be okay here, won't you? He asks.

You smile your best smile, and nod.

You really can't have him stay, anyway.

He nods back, and walks off to the train station. You purposefully look the other way.

He's not yours to have to stay.