Quentin Tarantino Spotlight
There is a strong possibility that Quentin Tarantino has forgotten more about movies than most film buffs will ever know. In addition to sporting an encyclopedic knowledge of all things cinema, he is one of the most talented and respected filmmakers of his generation. What’s more amazing is that the auteur director has left an indelible mark on Hollywood while staying true to his artistic vision. Think about this: Tarantino continues to rack up critical acclaim — Oscars, Golden Globes and BAFTA awards and nominations — for making genre pictures. If Tarantino retired today, pulpy crime thrillers, dusty westerns, and blood stained revenge fantasies would define his legacy.
In the context of Tarantino’s career, it makes perfect sense that The Hateful Eight, his most polarizing film, would follow Inglourious Basterds and Django Unchained, his two highest grossing films. While superstar directors often work with a high degree of autonomy, back-to-back films grossing a combined $700 million and universal critical praise translated to Tarantino receiving creative carte blanche. With enough clout, career accolades, and financial flexibility to do as he pleased, Tarantino decided not to chase commercial success. Instead, he opted to create a small-scale, intentionally divisive social commentary. His choice is not without precedent. 20 years ago this month, while still a director on the rise, Tarantino made a similar decision.
Released on January 19, 1996, From Dusk Till Dawn is a cinematic tag-team between Tarantino and his frequent collaborator, director Robert Rodriguez. The film features a script by Tarantino, who at the time of production was still riding high on Pulp Fiction‘s colossal wave of success. Critics and audiences crowned Pulp Fiction an instant classic; the film injected 90’s cinema with a shot of adrenaline akin to the big-ass needle Vincent slams into Mia’s heart during Pulp‘s infamous overdose scene. While Hollywood expected the young director to get right to work on his next masterpiece, he and Rodriguez had other intentions. Instead, the duo created a trashy, low-budget genre flick featuring Tarantino’s trademark snappy dialogue, over-the-top violence….and vampires.
We can define Tarantino’s career by his numerous crusades to preserve and pay homage to the cinema of his youth. Grindhouse cinema is one of Tarantino’s central creative influences, and From Dusk Till Dawn is his attempt to share his love of the genre with a new generation of cinephiles. When From Dusk Till Dawn made its debut in the mid-nineties, multiplexes, cable TV, and video-store franchises had virtually wiped grindhouse cinema off the map. At the time, the public viewed arcades and grindhouse theatres as seedy places inhabited by burnouts and criminals. Facing the wrath of churches, politicians, and freaked-out soccer moms, small indie-cinemas had to shut down. Sure, the hardcore cinephile could find ways to get their low-budget exploit movies fix, but even they lost out on the communal experience derived from sitting in a dark room with 200 enthusiastic, like-minded movie fans.
From Dusk Till Dawn took the best elements of sordid, exploitative grindhouse films, and packaged them for an audience starved for a genre movie fix — as well as a younger audience that didn’t know what they were missing. From Dusk Till Dawn‘s budget could have produced several dozen of the films it was channeling, and the production put every penny of it to use. Tarantino and Rodriguez made sure that their film hit all the beats grindhouse cinema fans could want (there’s a scene where a teenager begs to die while pubic-hair toting vampire-beasts eat him alive). Despite the gore, violence, and naked fiends, the feature didn’t dive so far down the grindhouse cinema rabbit hole that it wasn’t accessible to mainstream audiences.
Tarantino began introducing links between his movies in the mid-nineties, and From Dusk Till Dawn played a large role in establishing the connective tissue that binds the Tarantinoverse. In From Dusk Till Dawn, Michael Parks plays Texas Ranger Earl McGraw, an ill-fated lawman who meets his demise at the hands of the Gecko brothers — Earl and his son Edgar would eventually pop up in Grindhouse and Kill Bill. Later on in the film, Seth (George Clooney) steps away to grab some lunch and returns with Big Kahuna Burgers, the burger franchise made famous by Pulp Fiction‘s Jules when he munches down and declares, “This is a tasty burger.” Almost 20 years after showing up on the dashboard of the Gecko brother’s car, Red Apple cigarettes receive a shameless plug in The Hateful Eight. Sex Machine’s (Tom Savini) penis pistol and Chango beer even make the leap from Tarantino’s From Dusk Till Dawn script to Rodriguez’s Desperado. While these crossovers aren’t integral to the story, they add a narrative heft that makes the world seem lived in and the characters feel more fleshed out.
One of the main reasons From Dusk Till Dawn works so well is its spot on casting. The film features a combination of solid character actors (Michael Parks, Harvey Keitel), beloved genre icons (Tom Savini, Fred Williamson, Cheech Marin, Danny Trejo), and future stars (Salma Hayek, George Clooney). From Dusk Till Dawn’s deep cast also delivers a number of memorable performances; Michael Parks carries the opening scene with all the swagger of the movie’s hero, only to get blown away five-minutes later; Cheech pops up three times playing three different characters; and who can forget Salma Hayek’s seductive entrance as Santanico Pandemonion?— one of film’s sexiest introductions ever. In addition to a solid cast of role-players, From Dusk Till Dawn is notable for serving as the launching pad for George Clooney’s movie career. The film rocketed the then TV star into the Hollywood A-lister stratosphere, where he has remained for the past two decades. On the opposite end of the spectrum, the film helped Tarantino satiate his desire to act. While he still regularly pops up onscreen, Tarantino has come to terms with focusing his creative energy on his work behind the camera.
A true love letter to cinema’s bygone era, From Dusk Till Dawn is what happens when two visionary directors join forces to pay homage to the movies that inspired them; a cinematic throwback that’s also ahead of its time. From Dusk Till Dawn was far ahead of the curve, foreshadowing modern film’s over-reliance on recycling fondly remembered movies, TV shows, and games of yesteryear. While From Dusk Till Dawn isn’t a literal reboot, it captured the spirit of a past genre and repackaged it for new audiences. The movie is also notable for featuring numerous Easter Eggs linking Tarantino’s filmography. Finally, From Dusk Till Dawn stands out for its solid cast, particularly the film’s lead, George Clooney, an actor that never dove back into the murky waters of pulpy, grindhouse style filmmaking. From Dusk Till Dawn is the rare genre mash-up that is equally effective on multiple levels, a film that unravels in a crime-ridden nightmarescape that never fails to excite.
Editor’s Note: This article was originally published on March 12, 2017.
‘The Kingmaker’ is a Probing Look at the Wife of a Despot
The Queen of Versailles, released back in 2012, was one of the best documentaries of the decade. Directed by Lauren Greenfield, it followed Jackie Siegel, the trophy wife of David Siegel, founder of the timeshare company Westgate Resorts. The film depicted the family’s construction of what was to be the largest residential home in the United States, which quickly went awry once the 2008 financial crisis hit their business hard. The documentary showed that Greenfield has a unique gift for understanding the lives and pathologies of the super-wealthy. Seven years later, Greenfield is back with The Kingmaker, another documentary portrait of a rich lady — one who, like Jackie Siegel, also had a cartoonishly evil husband and a weakness for both opulent residences and rare exotic animals.
The Kingmaker is a portrait of Imelda Marcos, the First Lady of the Philippines from the 1960s to the ’80s. Imelda is known in the popular imagination as the supportive wife of that country’s dictator Ferdinand Marcos, for frequently meeting with world leaders, and for her extensive collection of thousands of pairs of shoes. This one is set on the other side of the world, but is just as instructive, not to mention entertaining.
Greenfield’s film catches up with the now 90-year-old Imelda, and depicts her life today as she luxuriates around her various estates, reminisces about late husband, tells stories about meeting with leaders from Reagan to Mao to Saddam, and pushes the political career of her son, known as Bongbong, who ran for vice president of the Philippines in 2016.
For the first half hour or so, The Kingmaker looks like an attempt to humanize and even rehabilitate Imelda’s image. She opens up about her mother’s death and her husband’s serial infidelities; he claimed he was constantly sending her around the world because he feared a coup, but really it was so he could conduct extramarital affairs.
We start to think this is, if not a puff piece, the equivalent of one of Errol Morris’ docs, where he gives a controversial political figure a chance to have their say while also challenging them.
But eventually things turn, and The Kingmaker lays out that the Marcos family had in fact engaged in massive human rights improprieties, from torturing political dissidents to rigging elections, to a scheme that entailed razing an entire residential area in order to build a zoo of exotic animals which were imported from Africa via bribes. Perhaps it was a clue early on when Imelda revealed how well she got along with the likes of Richard Nixon, Moammar Khadafy, Mao Tse-Tung, and Saddam Hussein.
The Marcos family also plundered billions from their own people, which paid for real estate all over the world, priceless art, as well as that famous shoe collection (The Kingmaker shows, among other things, that the Philippines could really use an Emoluments Clause.) What Imelda has to say now (she only ever refers to her husband as “Marcos”) makes it clear that she was not only complicit in the dictator’s crimes, but continues to defend and profit from them to this day.
And from what we see of the Marcos’ son, Bongbong, he’s a uniquely untalented and uninspiring politician who has inherited all of his father’s corruption, but none of his charisma. The Kingmaker also ties in with the modern-day politics of the country, as its current president, Rodrigo Dutarte, is shown as the true heir to the Marcos tradition, depicted as a Trump to Bongbong’s Jeb Bush.
The Kingmaker also recalls Joshua Oppenheimer’s great 2013 documentary The Act of Killing in the way it demonstrates how national myths are established and carried through the generations. We see schoolchildren reciting why the imposition of martial law was actually a moment of national glory.
Greenfield’s last film, last year’s Generation Wealth, was a big step down, lacking any focus and for some reason concentrating a great deal on people from the porn industry. But The Kingmaker is a return to form for the filmmaker, as it shows she’s honest enough to speak ill of her own subject.
‘Rojo’ Takes Carefully Composed Aim at Argentina’s Murky Past
Getting off to a creepy and crackling start, Benjamín Nasihtat’s Rojo can’t quite live up to its opening promise while admirably trying to navigate a muddied maze of vague suspicion around a small town in Argentina during the 1970s before the coup. Still, though the story bumps into a few dead ends before finally emerging into some light at the finish, exquisite compositions — punctuated by occasional bursts that mimic the time period’s cinematic style — and a quietly simmering performance from star Darío Grandinetti manage to keep things engaging enough throughout this low-key thriller.
After a mysterious opening shot in which an abandoned house in a pleasant neighborhood is calmly looted by various locals, Rojo directs our attention to a cozy, upscale restaurant where respectable lawyer Claudio sits alone, waiting for his wife, courteously acknowledged by other similarly well-off patrons. He draws the ire of another customer, who abrasively chides Claudio for occupying a table when he is not ready to order, thus depriving those who are. Pretending to take the higher road, Claudio gives up his seat, but can’t resist also giving this rude young man a lecture of his own — one that despite its refined vocabulary, smacks of hostile superiority. From there, an altercation ensues that will not only haunt Claudio for the rest of the film, but also stand for a certain societal rot that took over a country.
The sequence is chilling in its callousness, the way in which a person is removed from a restaurant — and a community — with nary a blink of an eye; soon, everyone is back to chattering away, enjoying their meals as if a mere pest had entered and was quickly shooed away. Beneath their civilized faces, however, their are subtle signs of deep unease. Rojo expertly creates a tension here that it will then go on to very slowly dilute, as more and more tangents are given prominence in an attempt to reinforce already clear themes without shedding new light on them.
The paranoia and guilt lurking beneath nearly every interaction in Rojo serves to bring attention to the various disappearances that take place and are alluded to throughout the story. That fear of being “disappeared” without a trace is a clear reference to the “los desaparecidos” — political dissidents from the era who either fled the country or were kidnapped and murdered in the wake of a military coup that wanted to silence opposition. The premise that one can suddenly say the wrong thing and summarily be erased from society while everyone looks the other way is an inherently scary one, and that pervading atmosphere goes a long way toward making Rojo highly watchable.
However, once the general idea is firmly and skillfully established, Rojo seems to have little place else to go with it. A subplot involving selling the house from the prologue is mildly interesting in how it portrays the opportunistic behavior that capitalized on atrocity, but the process eventually fizzles out. American rodeo cowboys pay a visit, alluding to U.S. involvement during the coup, but not much else. A trip to the beach perhaps shows a bit of the pressure that gets to those who have had to turn a blind eye for so long, but little else is garnered outside a stylish depiction of a solar eclipse that washes the screen symbolic red. A teenage romance seems like it’s reaching for something important to say about dominance and jealousy, but can’t come up with more than another disappearance — and of a character who might as well be a nobody regardless, for the few minutes they are on screen.
A missing doctor, a magician’s act, a church confrontation; the power of the vanishings is undermined somewhat by their frequency. But maybe that’s the point — that we all can be desensitized to injustice.
Still, whether or not one finds meaning, it’s hard to take one’s eyes off such gorgeously composed images as Nasihtat has crafted here. Though its plot often seems to lack focus, Rojo still emits a feeling of pinpoint exactitude through pictures. Nearly every frame is a joy to examine, creating a palpable sense that angles and staging have been meticulously prepared to convey important information key to unlocking the script’s mysteries. Restrained use of zooms and freeze frames also help inject some period style into the proceedings, and can be effectively startling. Holding it all together though is the repressed performance of Darío Grandinetti, who masterfully finds the quiet fear and hypocrisy in a certain kind of ‘upright’ citizen. As the various pressures grow (including from a big-city TV investigator played by Alfredo Castro), will he be able to hold it together?
The payoff is a bit anti-climactic, but Rojo has already been trending that way since the beginning. Nevertheless, it does conclude on a more explicit note, and there is a great visual pleasure to be had from simply watching this story unfold in such sharp, capable filmmaking hands.
‘Rojo’ is now available on digital formats from 1844 Entertainment.
‘Queen of Hearts’ is a Frank and Difficult Look at Sexual Desire
Trine Dyrholm is typically brilliant in Danish film ‘Queen of Hearts’ — playing an older woman embarking on an affair with her stepson.
Queen of Hearts starts with a rather banal scene. Anne (Trine Dyrholm) walks through the woods with her dog. Her children are just outside her large, glass-heavy house. She goes inside, where her husband, Peter (Magnus Krepper), says police have called and he has to go. She looks outside at some barren trees, dramatic strings play, and the title credits come on; it’s a seemingly innocuous moment curdled into something far more ominous.
This opening salvo with something moody and dark hiding within the banality and reliability of a simple family scene (later revealed to be in the future) sums up the Official Danish Best International Film submission Queen of Hearts as a whole. This is a film of bad decisions, loneliness, and creaky moral boundaries, interrogating the mores of modern womanhood against the backdrop of supposed domestic perfection.
Our protagonist, Anne, is a lawyer who works with children who have been abused. She knows how to talk to young victims of rape and neglect, balancing a firm sense of what’s right with the necessary language to give these children hope. But she has difficulties switching from work to home, unable to give her twin daughters the affection they deserve. One way for anyone to switch off and focus on life outside of work, of course, is to engage in some form of intimacy; yet, her hypocritical, workaholic doctor husband has little time to give her any attention in the bedroom.
When Peter’s teenage son, Gustav (Gustav Lindh), turns up to stay for the summer, Anne is immediately attracted to his moodiness and sexual swagger. Their slow seduction scenes seem to all come from different movies: porno (he suddenly comes out of the shower in the towel), summer indie drama (a scene in a lake with splashing water and an ecstatic soundtrack), and eventually horror (a writhing, overly staged sex scene in the dark that is extremely shocking in its frankness).
These shifts in tone reflect the film’s queasy study in shifting sympathies, making Queen of Hearts a modern morality play baked in typically Scandinavian seriousness. Is Anne simply engaging in a harmless affair, rediscovering her long-dormant sexuality? Or is the age difference simply too far? With echoes of both The Hunt (2012) and the women-focused sex-dramas of Lars von Trier, it is sure to provoke a mixture of praise for its brazen female sexual gaze, and eventually disgust for where this gaze finally takes us.
Most of us assume that we are good people, even as we are engaging in less than savoury activities. It may look bad to people on the outside, but we have our reasons. The ever-reliable Trine Dyrholm turns in another mesmerising performance here, balancing her own lack of sexual self-confidence against her outwardly authoritative presence as a lawyer. Even if we cannot agree with what she does, Dyrholm successfully conveys her character’s complexity, making her sympathetic throughout. But just as we can never judge ourselves objectively, we can never know the ultimate effect our actions may have on others, especially in a dynamic such as this, leading to some bitter results.
Queen of Hearts asks the viewer to never make assumptions, to think outside of clichés, and to really dig deep into the true heart of the matter. Director May el-Toukhy knows she has strong actors and a strong screenplay here, employing minimal tricks to just let them get on and really chew into the material. While unlikely to make it into the final Oscar shortlist, Queen of Hearts deserves a lot of credit for its utter brazenness and steadfast commitment to its difficult premise.
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