Armond White: Ridley Scott Hiccups Alien Fumes in Prometheus

Armond White — Fri, 08 Jun 2012 21:22:00 +0000

Now the Alien franchise becomes a Quintilogy–a purely market-driven neologism following the recent Blu-Ray boxset that labeled the first four Alien films not as a “Quartet” but a “Quadrilogy.” Prometheus is made with the same contempt for the public–as if anyone wanted or needed another repackaging of the sci-fi horror tale. Even the 1979 original (the best, seconded by Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s Alien Resurrection) was little more than what one critic condensed as “a gorilla in a haunted house movie.”

Prometheus could have been concocted by a publicist taking advantage of the current gullible film culture that believes the hype hoisting Ridley Scott as an artist (or even interesting). Scott’s sales record is all that makes fanboys take him seriously; his formulaic, stultifying, calendar-art-pretty movies certainly don’t. The mere fact that Prometheus gloms on to a legacy–it is a Prequel to the previous four films–is enough to convince the easily duped that something special is going on in this nonsense.

What’s going on is a plot that’s less coherent than any of the earlier films (even though it repeats them) with an unappealing cast babbling nonsense about Faith, Creation and Let‘s-get-the-hell-outta-here! The original film almost passes for art due to producer Walter Hill’s efficient adherence to genre storytelling and the unique exhibition of H.R. Giger’s unnervingly biomorphic designs for the monster and its space ship which simultaneously evoked outre genitalia and assorted seafoods. (The original’s signature motifs conveyed a palpable, nearly poetic fear of Sex.) Now, Ultrahack Scott reveals himself as little more than a production-design freak; Prometheus (convincingly shot in 3-D) lacks the atmospheric awe of the first film, the undeniably well-paced tension of James Cameron’s sequel and the rich, evocative splendor of Jeunet’s capstone.

Instead, Prometheus is marked by Scott’s typically shallow characterization, narrative confusion and disrespect for movie history. Not since the atrocious Wall-E has one movie so thoughtlessly trashed a superior film. This time both David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia and Steven Spielberg’s A.I.: Artificial Intelligence are dishonored through the characterization of an ominous automaton, David (played by Michael Fassbender who quickly has come to emblematize crap cinema). David models his hair and speaking voice after Peter O’Toole’s classic enigmatic Lawrence and David’s lack of “soul” refers to the conundrum of Spielberg and Kubrick’s neo-Pinocchio conception–scoffed at here as “not a real boy.”

To read the full article at CityArts click here.

Tensions Remain High in Steve McQueen’s Shame

admin — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 21:05:08 +0000

By Noah Wunsch

“We’re not bad people, we just come from a bad place,” says Brandon’s sister Sissy, and in that line lies the psyche of Steve McQueen’s latest film Shame. Brandon, played by McQueen favorite Michael Fassbender, is an attractive, successful, charming, self-hating sex addict. He needs it. Loathes it. Loves it. Torments himself endlessly with the thought of women. The smell of women. The fantasy of women. Sneaks off to the bathroom during work. Picks up women in the high class and the low class, with little self awareness.

Sex for Brandon is easy in the pretense, but terrifying in execution. The pain lies in Fassbender’s eyes. He’s able to glaze over from scene to scene in what seems to be an impressively studied manner. Brandon does not zone out, he zones in.

Things go awry when Brandon’s troubled sister, Sissy (Cary Mulligan), shows up out of the blue and uses Brandon’s apartment as her squat den. She tries getting Brandon to deal with problems he’d rather roll up in dirty sheets and throw away in the alley.

McQueen has filmed a New York City thought to be dead by most. His scenes teem with grit and beauty, taking the audience behind the velvet ropes and into the denizens’ lair. However, his closer scenes are the most powerful. Scenes between Fassbender and Mulligan are kept tight, shrinkwrapping the tension until it seems the camera might break, while the sex scenes are choreographed like a ballet. Head writhe. Leg extension. Back. Forth. Up. Down. Hips sway. Feet flex. They’re lovely, but explicit in an extremely realistic way. In these shots McQueen is able to capture Brandon’s struggle, as they’re less sexy as they are uncomfortable. Indeed, Fassbender stares into the camera as he has sex with two women at once, such sickly despair on his face that he seems ragged.

It seems important to clarify: this film is not like Midnight Cowboy. It’s not about an out of towner finding out how NYC can tear you down. This is not like The Last Tango in Paris. There’s no “sexual education,” no love in the sex. This is an NC-17 film that deals with a troubled individual who has found his way in life, but lost his humanity early on.

NYPress.com - New York's essential guide to culture, arts, politics, news and more » Michael Fassbender

Armond White: Ridley Scott Hiccups Alien Fumes in Prometheus

Tensions Remain High in Steve McQueen’s Shame

Photo credit: Actor Michael Fassbender in Shame. Photo By Abbot Genser, courtesy of Fox Searchlight