Tears of the Black Tiger: How to Make an Intentional-Bad Movie

In some ways, making an intentionally bad movie is more daring than making a good movie. If you fail, you have failed at something others have done by accident. If you succeed, there are going to be plenty of people taking your movie's badness at face value (as Rodriguez and Tarantino learned with Grindhouse), and at some level, being intentionally bad can be a lot less satisfying than accidentally stumbling upon it (as Snakes on a Plane will tell you). Compounding this is the difficult balance between winkingly bad and truly bad. I general good rule for this is that you can never, ever be boring. It's one thing to go way over the top, like in any of Chuck Norris' movies. But if you attempt some form of emotional content and miss the mark, the bad movie suffers as bad as a good movie. Case in point, Tears of the Black Tiger proves this in its potent mastery of fight scenes and its flailing attempts at emotional context.

Granted, the emotional context is as over-the-top as the action scenes. But they're boring. They're slow and filled with rote dialogue. It's built around one of those Slumdog Millionaire-esque "boy meets girl, grows up to find girl as an adult" scenarios. Our protagonist Dum has a couple flashbacks to his youth as he saves a young girl, Rumpooey, from harrassment again and again. She loves him, but class separates them. Blah blah blah. The story is, I assume, intentionally cliched, but the scenes are too slow to make an impact. There is much weepy-eyed hugging and sadness at broken promises. The simple story, the love plot also weighs down the momentum badly, taking up so much time pouting and being sad. Dum's flat acting is helpful when the movie settles into Western bullshit, but when it has to carry actual complex emotions (like conflict), the scenes just seem like tedious monologues for Rumpooey. If there ever needed to be a case to show why Clint Eastwood-directed westerns are low on the intimate sweetness, this is a pretty good one. They clash with the gleeful "I'm getting away with this!" attitude of the action scenes, and it's always hard to trust the emotional subtext when the movie includes a gag where an officer forgets to pull the pin from a grenade.

Let it never be said that they don't go gore well in Asia, though. This movie's a take off of Westerns, so it's filled with gunfights. Ever see someone take a rocket launcher to a gunfight? Ever see someone get shot at the tip-top of his ten-gallon hat and bleed from it? How about a bullet ricochet off a dozen different objects in the room before nailing its target? These scenes are absolutely fantastic and inventive. The cliche-ridden dialogue works so well here, as it underscores the corniness of these Western conventions and the ham-fisted impossibility of every fight. Best of all, it doesn't talk down to westerns; it's as much an homage as parody. There's a clear love for the revisionist westerns from the 60s, and it bursts out of every frame when it's an action scene. In the moments like the bloody shootout between the police and outlaws, which includes the aforementioned rocket launchers, the movie is incredibly entertaining.

But these scenes are relatively (emphasis on relatively) few and far between, and their tone clashes with the romantic subplot. Similarly, the relationship between Dum and his sideman, Mahesuan, underlines how distant the actor playing Dum is when he's talking to his love interest. There's even a montage that gives the best Brokeback Mountain parodies a run for their money. I can't find a clip right now, but let's just say... lots of drinking and smiling at each other while spinning in a circle happens. Also, horseback riding side-by-side along a beautiful landscape. It's not inherently gay, but let's just say neither is pro wrestling. They just seem closer than Dum and Rumpooey (his love), but not in a way that makes it any more convincing when Mahesuan turns on Dum. Their final gunfight never plays on their relationship at all, either, which makes the montage seem more an aberration than anything.

But let's get back to those landscapes. The set and costume design for this movie are phenomenal. I'm reticent to say "cinematography" because a lot of it seemed blurry and dimly lit to me, to the point that my eyes were feeling a little strained, but that also might be the DVD transfer. Everywhere - from the verdent greens of the lake filled with lillypads to the Barbie-pink of Dum's university - there are shockingly gorgeous colors used. Everything is over-saturated, like Speed Racer. Everything looks cheap, too, though, so imagine Speed Racer being done on a soundstage rather than CGI. Some sets are specifically on a soundstage to be similar to older Thai films. The aesthetic pleasures of the mvoie alone are almost enough to make this a recommendation, but not completely.

That underscores why I am put off by the romantic subplot, too. It's standard for the fighting in westerns to be over a woman, but these scenes appear to attempt face-value emotions. Then everything around it, from the settings to other scenes, is over-the-top. There's even a little person dancing around in a cowboy outfit! There's no way that little person is meant to be anything but comedic in this movie, or he'd do more than dance in his cowboy outfit. Anyway, everything else about the movie strikes the right tone, so I do recommend it if you want to see the western (arguably the most American of film genre) reflected in Asian cinema. Hell, even the mock-Morricone (Mockorricone?) score is absolutely note-perfect. Actually, that might be the best thing about the movie, really. But it's also a definitive case study on why it is difficult to make an movie that knows it's bad. Compared to this, I'll defend Snakes on a Plane or Shoot 'Em Up any day. They at least treat themselves like bullshit the whole time.

Stroszek: The American Landscape and its Buried Dreams

HI THERE

Some of Werner Herzog movies have a way of growing on me, unlike other filmmakers' projects. I liked Grizzly Man when I saw it, but over the years after that, I came to identify it as one of my favorite documentaries. Similarly, Aguirre: The Wrath of God felt like a fun (in its own way), surreal trip, but I never really got it out of my head. After rewatching it one more time, it became one of my all-time favorites. One of the keys to these movies, and Stroszek, too, is that the characters are so damned inherently memorable. In the minutes after watching it, I was pleased but not overwhelmed. Now, writing about it a day later, thinking about individual scenes makes me smile or cringe.

Part of this: Bruno S. (the character: Bruno Stroszek, the actor who plays him: Bruno Shleinstein) is an unnatural presence in front of a camera. He's awkward and nervous throughout; even when he's ranting loudly, it doesn't sound like a man with much confidence in the moment. His friend Scheitz is also intensely memorable for his quirks, but not in the indie-quirk way we've seen in, say, the works of Wes Anderson. Movies like Rushmore have characters that are clearly written creations (which is not to take away from Rushmore's greatness); Herzog at times seems like he could make a feature-length film about any random inmate at an asylum or a prison. That's definitely one of the things that gets commented on a lot in relation to this film, though. I'd rather go in another direction and focus on the settings, which reach a kind of verisimilitude of their own.

The movie begins in Germany, with Bruno getting let out of prison. He goes to a bar and has an apartment. The movie depicts the city as live-in; even Bruno's apartment is a cluttered mess. He's a street performer, and he performs in an alley that looks dingy and empty while he's playing his song. His prostitute friend Eva cleans it up, but Bruno's piano always seems too big for the room. Eva's pimps wreck the place, soon enough, anyway. Overall, the city is dark and confining. There's so much history there; it's almost a metaphor for Europe itself. It may just be coincidence (the nagging of film professors tells me it's not), but everything does seem small and lived-in, but also homely. Despite the mess, Bruno still has a fond nickname for his piano, and, once out of jail, picks up his street performing where he left off. Even as violent pimps roam the streets, it's clear tha thte city in some ways is home, or at least familiar, to Bruno and his friends.

Later, they move to Wisconsin, which is mostly barren fields. Even when Bruno's on the run after robbing a barber shop, the streets seem wide and inviting. Their trailer, a massive, hulking box, cannot fill in the space of the desert landscape enough to make the place seem populated. The truck yard nearby seems so empty. Scheitz wanders a field at one point testing "animal magnetism," and the land seems to go on forever. He never once has any conversation with anyone but his nephew and Buruno. There's something beautiful about these areas, but there's also something alien and strange about them, captured by the main characters. It helps to make Bruno a more sympathetic character, since America's such a strange place to him, yet it's not so strange that society will accept him.

Underscoring this, there's a scene where their trailer is auctioned off. Eva was the only person of the little group who spoke English, and she's long gone by this point in the movie. The auctioneer calls prices for items, too fast for me to fully understand what he's saying. One can only imagine how overwhelming it is for someone who doesn't speak English. From an establishing shot, the camera captures how empty this part of the country is, while a small mass of people huddle outside the massive trailer. Bruno's there, weaving in and out of the crowd, understanding what's happening, but not its specifics. After the auction is over, the town's police chief starts his car. Bruno berates and directly threatens him, but he drives off after apologizing for not understanding him. Bruno and Scheitz are alone, and it's painful to watch their every word be met with a sad confusion.

Some have said that this movie seems anti-American, but I don't think that's the intention. Almost everyone in the area is strangers to the group. They have no stake in their well-being, and they all treat the immigrants with politeness. The language barrier is too much to overcome for almost anyone, though; they're only there for a short amount of time before their living arrangements start to come apart. When Eva pays the man from the bank with cash she earned prostituting, he's bewildered that it's not in check or card form. Neither side really has the time or inclination to get to know the other. This is one of the scenarios where the casting of non-actors helps; the townspeople seem even more dumbfounded by what's happening then Herzog's actors. From the way from the guy from the bank continually apologizes for demanding payments, it's like their housing issues move along on their own accord.

It's interesting, then, that the happiest moments in the film are when Bruno, Eva and Scheitz are sightseeing in New York. Now, all I know about New York circa 1977 is learned from Scorsese movies, Al Pacino's 70s works, Saturday Night Fever, and the Rolling Stones album Some Girls. I am under the impression that a lot of motherfuckers got shot up a lot and things that would be crimes in other cities went unchecked. That makes it interesting that the most idyllic part of the Stroszek takes places as these immigrants who barely speak English looking around this city in a sunny daytime. You never see New York having that in those movies. New York, too expensive for a street performer, a prostitute and an old man to live, is the American myth that they hope to find when they first set out. At one point, Bruno admits that he believed America would be different from Germany, only to find that he's an outcast in both places.

More pro- or anti- anything, though, the movie is observant. It's the perfect mode for a director who went into documentaries later on, where everything seems natural-ish, if not truly natural. Hell, I went this whole way without even mentioning that the Wisconsin town was the homeplace of noted grave robber Ed Gein (try to find that on their welcome sign, though). That's never brought up in the movie, though. Does knowing that add anything to it? I don't know, but it kind of explains some of the emptiness, doesn't it? It doesn't? I don't know, then. The movie ends with a chicken dancing nonstop, though. What does that mean? I have guesses, but I would venture to say it was filmed with nothing specific in mind. Just feelin' right, like the rest of this movie.

Big Fan: Does This Jersey Make My Ass Look Insane?

oh hi there

Robert Siegel's directorial debut Big Fan can be seen as a companion piece with The Wrestler, also written by him. In some ways, each are grittier versions of Funny People, too. They're all movies about guys who live arguably misguided lives, come close to death and learn nothing from it. I'm not going to compare the three further than that, since I think The Wrestler and Funny People are each worthy of their own entries, but I just thought I'd point it out. Of the three, Big Fan is probably the easier to relate to, and is maybe the best-balanced of the three, all-around. That is to say, The Wrestler almost built entirely around Mickey Rourke's (excellent) performance, and Funny People meanders somewhat badly (though I find myself defending it frequently). Big Fan's biggest strength is its story, which stays down to earth in even the most unlikely of times.

Patton Oswalt plays Paul Aufiero, and to say Paul is a huge Giants fan is an understatement. The movie takes place over the second half of a regular season of football, and leaves you with no idea what the guy does when the Giants aren't playing. That's most of the year, right? At the start of the movie, we see Paul at work as an attendant at a parking garage, listening to sports radio. He's listening to his arch-rival, Philadelphia Phil (Michael Rapaport) rave about how the Eagles are going to kick the Giants' asses. Paul spends the dead time during his job scribbling a rebuttal. This is a weekly dance they do; aside from actually watching the Giants play (for home games, in the parking lot of Giants stadium on TV), Paul lives to be a fan. He calls into the sports show after work to read out of his notebook while his mother yells at him to quiet down. His friend congratulates him afterward on a job well done. It's not crazy if someone else thinks you're right, I guess.

The rest of Paul's family is introduced at a nephew's birthday party. They've all got "normal" lives while Paul lives with his mother; it's an obvious source of tension for a man in his mid-30s. He's happy to be just a fan, though. It's going to sound odd to say this, but the scenes with his family introduce sexuality into the picture. He has a long and funny conversation with his mother on the way home from the party about his brother taking up with (and marrying) his secretary, who looks like a reject from the Jersey Shore auditions. The movie lingers lovingly on his poster of his favorite player, Quantrell Bishop (Jonathan Hamm). His size and muscles are romanticized in thr picture. Paul masturbates under bedsheets, but never appears to look at porn ot be interested in women. The movie smartly has the meeting between Paul and Bishop (which ends with Bishop beating the living fuck outta Paul) take place in a strip club. Paul and his friend are so enamored with Bishop's presence that they almost don't notice a stripper, or, really, that they're in a strip club. The way the duo watches Bishop from afar almost resembles a kid in elementary school being too shy to approach a crush. They even buy Bishop a drink.

So am I saying Paul gay? Not any more than the millions of football fans who idolize big, muscular men. But it's an inherent homoeroticism (which does not mean to be gay!) in sports fandom, and I enjoyed that the movie pointed it out.

But even if there's something strange about Paul, Oswalt plays him with a warmth that makes him understandable. His fanaticism is tested in probably one of the strangest, most difficult ways imaginable. Wisely, the movie avoids having him debate whether or not to continue being a Giants fan. There aren't any big speeches about the nature of fanaticism, even if that's one of the movie's themes. His only verbally explosive moment is when he yells at his mother for insisting he live a "normal" life. Even after being concussed, he's more concerned with how the team is playing - and blaming himself that the team suffers while Bishop is suspended for the incident. It could have been subtitled "The Passion of Paul," since his allegiance to his team is tested so thoroughly.

Late in the movie, he takes on the guise of an Eagles fan, which leads to something similar to a Jesus-like death/redemption without so much as a single Jesus pose. After defending the Giants from Philadelphia Phil for the whole movie, it seemed like the ultimate betrayal for him to wear the green, black and white. He seems so resigned when he sits in a bar with Phil, there's palpable psychological torment. In the end, though, movie only flirts with a Taxi Driver-esque descent into madness, which leads to a perfect climax. It works much like a joke that is only funnier because of how long it is (unlike The Aristocrats, or its namesake). Paul still winds up in jail, though, and because of that, we never see how he spends a normal off season. Handled differently, the implication that this could all happen again next football season could be horrifying, but instead Siegel gives it a fair amount of warmth and optimism.

Something that helps keep things warm is probably the kind of fanaticism he exhibits. Philadelphia Phil is an obnoxious douchebag; I don't even think other Eagles fans like him much. Paul, strange as he is, pretty much only roots against other teams when they're playing his Giants, or as a rebuttal to other football fans. It helps keep him likable, even if his decisions are irrational and unfair to himself. This (as well as that punchline of a climax) is probably why this is often cited as a comedy. It's really not funny for most of its duration (and it's not a long movie, either), at least in the way one would expect from a normal comedy. Or even possibly a dark comedy. It's a bitter and observant kind of comedy, which makes it wholly successful and digestible movie than a drama would have been. As a previous writer for The Onion, Siegel is probably familiar with the cliche "it's funny because it's true." And, while Big Fan isn't necessarily true (and for the sake of any real-life Pauls, I really hope it isn't), it contains a kind of truthful insight that applies to any kind of passion that makes it funny in its own way.

...Go Pats

Laura: For When Your Movie Barely Needs to Make Sense

OH! Hi there!

My first exposure to Laura came in a "Music in Film" class I took in college. The professor used it as an example of film makers going to strange lengths to shoe-horn music into their movies. In the scene he showed as an example, Dana Andrews' Det. McPherson walks into the home of the titular Laura (Gene Tierney), whose murder he is investigating. While he looks around and talks about the case, he turns on her phonograph and pipes in music. When watching it yesterday, I especially noticed that he did that again in another scene. It's an odd man who goes around turning on strangers' radios for ten seconds before shutting them off.

But then, Laura is a strange movie. It's a noir that deals with a murder, but its characters are played to a campy effect. Not only that, but its main characters almost all seem to belong in their own separate movies. Yet, they all make sense together and form the cast of a genuine classic. The most interesting of the bunch is Clifton Webb's Waldo Lydecker. The film starts with his narration, but eventually that gets dropped. He also narrates a flashback, which includes scenes that he is not present to witness. It's an odd inconsistency, but it works within the film because the whole thing is so surreal by 1944 standards.

For this reason, I wish I had seen this in tandem with Masked and Anonymous. It accomplishes a lot of that movie's goals with seemingly a lot less effort (and a 579% reduction in plodding monologues). When I wrote about that movie, I noted that the casting was eclectic but predictable. Well, how about this? Webb, an open homosexual (I didn't even know they existed in 1944 America), plays Lydecker as a person who at least carries a prissy narcissism with him at all times. At most, he's a full-blown caricature of homosexuality. At the same time, he's fiercely protective of Laura, his ...what, exactly, is she to him?

Lydecker's relationship with Laura is poorly defined. He's shown to be a mentor to her; it's implied they might be lovers. They at least live together and have a set weekly routine. But the age difference is enough to make it strange. His demeanor is so distant, one wonders what Laura sees in him. From his nastiness during their meet-up to the odd moment where he reminisces about reading his own articles to her, the relationship is somewhat amorphous and vague.

Similarly, McPherson's relationship to Laura is odd, even by the low standards of romantic subplots. He falls for Laura while investigating her murder. Lucky for him, it turns out Laura is alive. The woman who was murdered wasn't Laura after all, but a model having an affair with Laura's fiance. Still, the characters lack any chemistry, so when they kiss near the climax, it's a forced moment, like the characters are doing things out of some kind of obligation. Up to that point, Laura showed no interest in the detective. It becomes another odd detail in a movie full of them.

Laura herself is an odd character, so perhaps it isn't so strange that her relationships are a little off, too. Played with detachment by Gene Tierney, she is hailed by Waldo, and her fiance as being a kind and radiant person. Her housekeeper is so grief-stricken at her "death" that she comes off as a nervous wreck. She's so wonderful, remember, that the detective falls for her a little while he still thinks she's dead. Later, the maid is absolutely terrified at the apparently alive Laura. Laura's reaction? About a minute of comforting words and a request for eggs. When Laura shows up midway through the movie, she's a curiosity precisely because she doesn't live up to the hype.

There apparently was a scrapped studio-mandated ending where the whole thing was a dream. This ending was scrapped because it was hard to understand. What's interesting is that the movie itself very much has its own internal logic, much like a dream. So many little things fall apart under scrutiny, whether it's the characters, their motivations, etc. To nitpick a movie like this ("Why didn't McPherson try harder to find the woman who was with Laura's fiance once he found out about her?") is to miss the point. It's a tightly-wound, pulpy little mystery that casts suspicion on everyone. When a movie has me wondering if the most minor of characters are the criminal, it's doing something right.

Lone Wolf and Cub: Sword of Vengeance: The Art of Waiting to Slice a Dude

o hello

Before watching Lone Wolf and Cub: Sword of Vengeance, I had been watching The Incredible Hulk (AKA Hulk: Ed Norton remix). In few ways are the movies similar. Yet, they build on the same foundation of a guy who destroys opponents with ease taking his time to be coaxed out of his shell by others doing wrong. What I mean is that the plot of each is pretty much the protagonist getting treated badly and then RRAAAAWWRRRGGGHHH (or in Lone Wolf and Cub's case: SWOOOOSH SWISH!): instant gratification and justice. It's a comparison that can be made to the westerns by Sergio Leone, where gunfights are not drawn out; it's Rainbow Six rules: one shot kills. This probably doesn't last for The Incredible Hulk (I only saw the first half; it's in my Netflix now to finish at some other date), but Lone Wolf and Cub never creates a villain who is able to equal its protagonist, Ogami Itto.

That's notable, in looking at so many superhero adaptations. John Favreau's Ironman and Ang Lee's Hulk both struggled to create a suitable villain in their final act. One of the flaws of the (still good) Tim Burton Batman movie was that they spent more time on the villains than the hero. The villain of the series has no fighting prowess in this Lone Wolf and Cub movie. He's an old man running a "shadow" clan, an elderly man played in an overdramatic way, like a Noh theater character. His strength is in the number of men he commands, and while his villainy sets off the movie's narrative, he is not seen for the last third.

The movie is almost strictly an origin story for is first two acts; it's a story of betrayal and corruption that ends with Itto vowing to be an assassin for hire as he travels with his son. It establishes his skill with a sword, and the aesthetic of its fights. The fights tend to be bloody - individual swordsmen are slashed and killed in single swipes, while Itto is untouched. No one, not the officers come to arrest him, nor the army trying to stop him after he refuses to commit seppuku for his crimes, can touch him. Throughout, we see him wronged until he unleashes the awesome power of slicing the fuck outta someone with a really sharp blade. Then, he fights the odds in self-defense until he uses his cunning to get into a duel. Then, he uses his cunning again combined with his ability to decapitate motherfuckers to win the duel.

The action is handled with vigor, handling special effects for the various severed limbs and campy spraying blood smoothly. Yes, it's all cartoonish, but it's also fun in a B-movie way. Of course, the movie saves the best for last, with Itto taken captive in a town taken over by an evil chamberlain and his men. Upon first sight, they threaten to cut down a bridge while he is on it. They rape a woman. Then kill her father. One guy demands to challenge him because he is insulted. They force him to have sex with a prostitute while they watch. They even wipe a bloody sword clean on the robe he's wearing. The movie pushes them to cartoonish levels of depravity, not even feigning a chance that Itto could be beaten by them. Instead, we get a violent bloodbath of righteous vigilante justice (AKA justice in its purest form).

Anyway, I can't labor over this entry because the movie is both simple and short (82 minutes! When was the last time anyone produced a movie that was 82 minutes? Freaking Cars was nearly two hours!). Also, the entire series is on my Netflix queue now, and I fully intend on doing an entry for each. It's just that sometimes it's the simplest things that are great pleasures. Like when a dude gets pushed too far and winds up he can cut your sword in half and then jam the loose half through your throat with blood sprouting out of the top of your head somehow. Or when Bruce Banner's got some spanish dude and his posse kicking his ass for no reason while the government's on his back, and he's been running, and his Portuguese isn't so good and RRAAAWWRGGH HULK SMASH. Of course, in the case of Lone Wolf and Cub, it helps that it's a straight-up well-made movie, with great cinematography and some extremely well-chosen set pieces. But, in the end, how much of the audience is gonna care about that really gorgeous waterfall with a wood bridge overlooking it?

Masked and Anonymous: No, Your Song Is Not a Screenplay

Oh, HELLO there?

Can you name a song turned into a movie? Not counting rock operas or full albums? I can't, at least off the top of my head. I suppose it's possible; if Spike Jonze can turn Where the Wild Things Are into a movie, it follows that some songs can become movies. If you have an interest in doing this, see Masked and Anonymous. It's very much an illustration of why you should probably put that screenplay of yours in the shredder. While not based on a specific song, it was penned by Bob Dylan and its director, Larry Charles. It's more a curiosity than a movie, featuring the same kind of impenetrable imagery one might find in Dylan's songs. Charles admits as much:

When I made the Bob Dylan movie [Masked and Anonymous], I wanted to make a Bob Dylan movie that was like a Bob Dylan song. One with a lot of layers, that had a lot of poetry, that had a lot of surrealism and was ambiguous and hard to figure out, like a puzzle.

Mission accomplished, I say. It truly is a movie that's "ambiguous" and "hard to figure out," but to what end? A Dylan song can be densely packed, full of small details, contradictions, literary and historical characters. His "Desolation Row" is an example of this, but I would not want it as a movie.

The problems with the idea itself are numerous, and they undercut some okay acting, a great cast and interesting direction. Dylan himself is cast as Jack Fate, one of many unfortunate names that would probably sound fine as a character in a song (others include: Tom Friend, Pagan Lace, Uncle Sweetheart... aw, fuck it. Look at imdb's page). As characters in a movie, though, they are all one-dimensional creations. Fate is much like the singer in a song: an observer, which is unfortunate because Dylan is not much of an actor. If the canonization of his music and persona has sealed him into an almost inhuman figure, his flat line readings and evasive maneuvers when questioned by the press aren't helping. His physical appearance - so small and thin - makes him a worrisome presence (and it doesn't help that he spends much of the movie standing next to John Goodman). He would not be out of place in the background of a diner in a David Lynch movie. Of course, he is based on Dylan: Jeff Bridges' journalist questions him about not being at Woodstock; the songs by "Jack Fate" are old Dylan songs.

Aside from those details, though, he is an observer to the events around him, passively listening as Jeff Bridges berates him with questions, or as Val Kilmer waxes philosophical about God-knows-what. That's a problem for a movie, because the viewer is already an observer to the action. If a song is like a story being relayed (via its singer), a film is like a memory being shared. You don't need the passive figure to hang up your decorative crazy characters. It frees up the cast to do a whole lot of "ACTING" around him in monologues, which, unfortunately, are not as full of insight as they (the actors, writers, directors, characters) may think. They all riff on the nature of revolutions, war, the world, whatever. It's all related to the plot, which is just window dressing for Dylan and Charles to congratulate themselves on their ability to write a good comeback ("If you had to kill a man, what would you use? A knife or a gun?" "My bare hands," and so the conversations in this movie goes). One of the problems of the movie is the sheer normality of its characters, despite its attempts at strangeness. Of course John Goodman's a blowhard. Of course Luke Wilson's a really nice guy. Of course Mickey Rourke's a bit of a bastard. Part of the problem with loading the cast with such big names is that you can't get past the types of characters these actors generally play. It robs the movie of its attempted weirdness to typecast everyone in roles we've seen before.

One could argue that maybe that's another layer to the movie, like, maybe the "movie" is commenting on how we "perceive" these "people" as "characters," maaan. But even if that was intentional, doesn't that seem like an awful burden to load onto a movie that already ruminates on the nature of war, man, the role of the protest singer, journalism and whatever the hell else Dylan and Charles were getting at? A Dylan song's lyrics can run into wild, surreal directions, but they're always much more focused than this movie. Even something that twists and turns like "Tangled Up in Blue" or "It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)" are focused on one subject or mood.

Masked and Anonymous struggles to share the dense detail of a Dylan song, too. Every frame is packed with little decorations, but to what purpose? The lighting has a greenish hue. John Goodman wears an atrocious powder blue suit. Penelope Cruz wears a Metallica T-shirt (to his credit, Mickey Rourke probably just showed up on set looking like that), but why? People exist and say things that don't matter. It's like a dream, but in a bad way. A song can coast on its melody; if the lyrics are merely evocative (and Dylan's often can be), it's merely for the mood or the idea that's being expressed. Feature length films don't generally have this luxury because they're at least 90 minutes long. An exception might be David Lynch films, but his inventions are more outrageous than anything here.

Anyway, I don't want to belabor this point much. In the end, as an attempt to make a movie out of a song (or some kind of "movie song"), it's proof that maybe this isn't a great idea. To leave on a positive note, though, the reworkings, remakes and covers of Dylan songs are pretty interesting. Also, near the end of this movie, you do get a chance to see the (estimating from this movie: 4'7"/27 lbs/205 y.o.) Bob Dylan beat up the (estimating from this movie: 6'1"/250 lbs/47 y.o.) Jeff Bridges without any effort (or acting) whatsoever. This won't be a Great-Bad Hall of Fame entry ever (too boring), but that scene on its own certainly deserves a mention.